Getting famous: Step 1

The motivation: In order to get my not-yet-published-but-surely-a-bestselling-memoir published, I need to be well-known enough so that publishers feel confident that I have a built-in audience who will be anxious to get themselves a copy.

The plan: I’ve carefully devised a 100-step plan to build a platform, aka get famous. And when I say famous, I mean well-known enough so then when people around the country hear that I--Suzanne Galante--have published a book, they'll gladly part with $20 for an opportunity to read it, but not so famous that I can't go to Trader Joe's with unruly hair and fleece pants after dropping the kids at school. Think Jodi Picoult versus Kate Winslet.

How it works: Each day, I will share a new step to building my rock-solid platform.  

Step 1: Bought new lipstick today. I definitely needed the right shade staining my lips, so that I could pursue my job of getting famous. 

The good, the bad, and the platform

The good news: I have three literary agents reading my manuscript right now! Oh, how difficult it will be to decide which agent to choose when they all want to represent me.

The bad news: I always thought the hard part of getting a book published would be writing the book. But that was just the beginning. We never talked about “platform” in graduate school. A writer’s platform is sort of like a little insurance policy for publishers. If I’m hugely successful writer who speaks at conferences and writes a regular column for some newspaper or magazine, then people are more likely to buy my book instead of a different book from an author they never heard of. Publishers want writers who have a built-in audience who will buy the book. I get it. Publishing books is a business, and publishers want to invest in books that are going to do well with as little investment as possible.

So what's my platform? It appears that there is a slight hole in my book proposal (Promise me you won't tell anyone, okay?). I need a rock-solid Marketing & Promotions section. I am full of ideas. But publishers could care less about all the things I plan on doing to promote my book. They want to know what I’ve done, and how I’ve built a brand around myself. While I’ve published more than 1,000 pieces of writing in my career—not including this blog—that stack of by-lines doesn’t provide me with a sturdy platform, as much as I’d like to think it does.

But fear not gentle reader. I just need to start writing new material so that I can send it out and win some awards. If I hadn’t been in graduate school writing the book, I could have been busy becoming famous. Getting famous and building a solid platform surely must be easier than writing a book.

The other side of motherhood

As a little girl, I thought about growing up and becoming a mother. My childhood was not unlike many little girls’ as it came to fantasizing about being married and having babies. I played with dolls and mothered my dog and rabbit as if extensions of myself.

As a teenager, I equated babies with mistakes and accidents, something to avoid. In my early and mid-twenties, I equated babies with a loss of independence, a loss of alone time, couple time, friend time, camping trips, vacations, restaurant meals, and privacy. Still, even with all of those fears about the things that I would lose as a result of parenthood, I knew deep down there were wonderful and beautiful things to be gained as a result of motherhood. And in my gut, I wanted to have a baby someday. That desire is biologically hard-wired. It is real. And powerful.

Now that I’ve been a parent for nearly nine years, it’s hard to remember what my life was like before my two children. My youngest is five-and-a-half years old. He’s not really a baby at all, although I pull him across my lap every so often, his head in the crook of my arm like a newborn and his feet dangling near the floor like a big kid.

Intellectually and realistically, I’m done having kids. But my hormones clearly have other plans for me. As recently as a few months ago, I was having vivid dreams about pregnancy and nursing and the intoxicating smell of a baby’s head. At 38 years old, I suspect I have a few good eggs in there still. I felt intense pangs of desire, even though my body doesn’t like being pregnant. My vascular system didn’t like it, and I ended up with some varicose veins. My stomach didn’t like it, and I threw up until I was 20 weeks along. My sanity didn’t like it because sleepless nights and round-the-clock feedings are torturous. And, of course, there is the very real fear of having another child with life-threatening medical problems. But biology doesn’t care about any of my issues, and I'm sure that wasn't the last time my body will try to convince me to do it again.

The notion of having another has also come up a lot in recent months with other women whose youngest is also in kindergarten. I’ve also talked about it with my significant other’s sister-in-law when we visited them and their five-month-old twins in England just after Christmas. I’ve talked about it with close friends and acquaintances alike.* But what we’ve talk about, more than whether or not we really want another pregnancy and another baby, is what it’s like to be on the other side of the target that we aimed for from the time we held our first baby dolls 30+ years ago.

It’s just strange to be done, on the other side of motherhood. I still have lots of mothering to do. I’m not saying my job is done. But there won’t be any more pregnancies or nursing, and it’s a significant loss to realize it’s all behind me. Yes, I’m referring to the physical aspect of pregnancy and nursing and the logistical aspect of diapers and developmental milestones, but I'm also referring to everything else that separates holding your own baby from holding a someone else's baby.

(I also talked about my feelings with my significant other—not because I was trying to convince him we should make beautiful babies together, but because we talk about stuff :)

The empty house

For dinner, I ate the untouched peanut butter & banana sandwich my son removed from his lunchbox when he got home from school today. The kids went off to their dad’s house before dinner, so it was just me and that peanut butter sandwich.

You see, I’m a little disoriented. I always have my kids Tuesday through Saturday, but we swapped some days here and there over the holidays and now my kids are gone for a whole week. Their departure happened to coincide with the week my significant other is away on business. After I hugged my kids good-bye and locked the door behind them, I realized it was going to be just me all week. That hasn't happened in a long, long time. Not surprisingly, the silence, solitude, and lack of any plans reminded me of when I first moved out of the big house and into my own place as a single girl nearly three years ago. It was lonely and quiet and there were many long, restless nights. I often went to the movies or to the café as an avoidance tactic.

But tonight, I didn’t want to hide in a crowd, lose myself in some Hollywood tale, or need any avoidance tactics. I looked around my house at the photographs I’ve taken and blown up. I looked at the pastel drawing I’ve framed. I looked at all the kids’ art that decorates the rooms they call home four nights a week. I looked at pictures of my kids and thought about how I’m a much better parent than I used to be. And not just because when they sleep at my house I read to them for those crucial twenty minutes. Rather, I don't need to escape the way I used to. I looked forward to being in my quiet house with nothing to distract me from my unpublished book that needs polishing and some stories I’m supposed to read and critique for the writing group I recently joined. But even if I didn't have those things, I would have been content all alone at home.

I don’t need distractions anymore. I actually like my life. I’m proud of the things I’ve accomplished the person and mother I’ve become. I knew all of this, but it became that much clearer once all of my favorite people were away at the same time.

It also became clear that I need to do a better job making dinner for a party of one.

Dedication

I wrote the dedication for my book today. It consisted of two words, just eight letters. And after I typed them, I cried for a long time.

Many times during the last three years, I’ve wondered why I was writing this story, why I continued to torture myself with the past. I could have tried to let his history be something I thought of only when medically necessary. Instead I’ve read medical records, interviewed doctors, and forced myself time and again into the sad and desperate places I’ve been during this journey.

When I turn the completed manuscript into the MFA department on November 16, I hope that I find it was all worth it, although I suspect that won’t be something I know for some time.

[And thank you to those of you who have contacted me, wondering why my last post was in July. The thesis has been all consuming, and I’m looking forward to different types of writing, including this blog, in the coming months.]

I love the way you dance...

I’ve been dancing occasionally with a guy that looks like my ex at my Monday night dance class—you know, similar height, similar body type, similar hairstyle. And I think it’s improved my relationship with my ex (which was already quite good) because every time I see him or interact with him, I remember how much fun it was seeing him let loose at dance class. Arms swinging, knees up, all with a serious expression, of course.

While it’s unlikely that he would ever indulge in an unstructured dance class, especially one with a slightly spiritual edge based in the realm of personal growth, it provides me with much humor to imagine him there embracing something completely out of character. It’s just a little harmless transference psychology. And it makes me chuckle. Another benefit of my Monday night class.

The unsung mother

A year ago on Mother’s Day, I came across a picture of my kids online. It was not a picture I had taken. It wasn’t a moment we shared together. And it was then that I realized that my kids have a life that I am not a part of. Intellectually, I had known that for a long time. They go to school without me. They have playdates without me. They have visited their grandparents 2,500-miles away without me. They live in another house half the week. Without me.

But that photo wasn’t just a snapshot of them at the park or at the beach or at a restaurant. It was a picture of my kids snuggled up with my ex-husband’s girlfriend. The picture was taken on Mother’s Day. I knew that because R wore his sweatshirt printed with cars, and C wore his Giants’ tee shirt—the clothes they were wearing when I dropped them off earlier that day. And I saw that picture because the girlfriend and I have some mutual friends on Facebook and it showed up in my newsfeed.

At the time, that picture felt like a kick in the stomach. Who exactly was that woman cuddled up on the couch with my boys? I knew a little about her because my kids talked about her and her dog and cats. But she was a stranger to me. At the same time, she is someone who spent lots of time with my kids. They are comfortable around her. They get excited when they see her car parked outside their dad's house. They ask if they will get to see her over the weekend. They like her. A lot.

After seeing that picture, I spent a bit of time struggling with my feelings. I wanted my kids to like her because if they didn’t, well, that would be bad. But I didn’t want them to like her too much because, well, I’m their mom.

A few months later the universe did me a huge favor. It gave me a friend who helped me see things from the other side—as in, from the girlfriend’s perspective. My friend had fallen in love with and married a man with two young children. Those kids are about to graduate from high school now, but she helped raise them. She helped make their lunches and drive them to school and comfort them in the middle of the night. For fifty percent of their lives, she was their mother too.

From the time they were six years old, she was just as much a part of their lives as their biological mother. She loves them as her own and refers to them as her bonus kids, because step kids seems too impersonal. Years from now, I suspect my kids won’t remember a time before their bonus mom, just as they won’t remember a time before their bonus grandparent. He came into our lives when R was an infant.

I feel fortunate that my ex chose someone who has welcomed my kids into her life. I feel relief that my kids want to spend time with her. I feel lucky that there is another person who loves my kids and wants to be a part of their lives everyday, and especially, on Mother’s Day. Because there could never be too many people loving my kids. Bonus parent. How lucky. For all of us.

Is this article sponge-worthy?

Even though Seinfeld aired its last episode 13 years ago this month, so many situations in life still circle back to its timeless tales.

On my way to class tonight, the woman I carpool with and fellow MFA student and I chatted about how we get our news. For better or for worse, I've found that breaking news often comes through Facebook. Someone comments on or reposts an article and it shows up in my newsfeed. Handy. From there, I either click on the link or head to CNN.com. Most of her news used to come from the NYTimes.com, which is set as her home page. But things have changed.

Two months ago, the NYTimes started limiting the number of articles that could be accessed for free each month. As a result, she finds herself hesitating before exercising her index finger. I was immediately reminded of Elaine’s dilemma after learning that the Today Sponge was being taken off the market.

With every choice we make, we give something up. For Elaine, it was one of her coveted sponges. For my writing colleague, it's one of her 20 free articles. In both situations, it's only after they go through with it can they know if it was worth it.

Don't stop

There have been many times in the past two years when I’ve wanted to stop. Stop writing. Stop doing homework. Stop going to class. Life has attempted to distract me in many enticing ways. But there are just two more weeks of class. And when this semester ends, there are no more classes. Not just for the semester, but for my MFA program.

There was an ever-so-subtle shift in my attitude three or four weeks ago. It went from When is it going to be over?! to Oh, it’s almost over! Once classes are finished, I’ll be working tirelessly on my manuscript for several months. But the weekly discussions about narrative arc and structure and pacing will stop. The weekly conversations about voice and narrative distance and tone will stop. The weekly assignments focusing on bringing things to life on the page and creating compelling dialog will stop. I had my final workshop last night, meaning it was the last time classmates will critique my writing.

I’m just guessing, but I suspect there will be many times when I wish it could begin all over again.

A consolation vacation

We were tossed into retro romance the instant the Tang-colored door swung open and swallowed our tired bodies. Once our eyes adjusted to the brightness, we were surrounded by bold. There were the paisley bolster pillows for our backs, the purple and orange striped carpets for our feet, and slick, red plastic chairs for our booties.

Beyond our room, through the glass, those could have been tropical waters reflected in the turquoise sky. But once we slid the door open and stepped onto our balcony, the cool Northern California February breeze pinched our skin.

Still, we didn’t immediately go back into the heated room. That view held our dream of being dipped into warm waters like strawberries into melted chocolate. As if on cue, that’s when we noticed the hot tub below.

But this was not a romantic getaway. Yes, I shared a bed, but there was no nudity outside of the shower. There was no kissing, outside of playful pecks. There was no arousal, even though I’d hoped for a juicy dream. This was a weekend with my mother and two boys in Santa Cruz. We’ll call it a consolation vacation because my mind was preoccupied with snow and skiing. It was Ski Week after all. My boyfriend and his kids and me and my kids were separated by 200 miles, 6,225 feet in elevation, and circumstance.

I didn’t really want the thick coats and ice scrapers of Tahoe—at least that’s what I kept telling myself while we debated a walk on the beach versus a swim in the chlorine. I hate that my son’s medical diagnosis crops my map and makes mountains off limits unless accompanied by an oxygen tank. So I exercised my credit card and splurged on views and heated pools and hot tubs. Those high-thread count sheets, down pillows, and snow-white duvets softened the emotional toll of being stuck at sea level.

My family didn’t know that they didn’t get to go to Tahoe. No one complained that they played in the sand instead of the snow. No one complained that they soaked in a hot tub at a hotel with lime accents and veneer next to the salty ocean instead of in one at a cabin with floral wallpaper and wood paneling next to a clear lake.

But it was so darn romantic. “It’s like being on my honeymoon,” my mom said.

“Then I must be a disappointment,” was my snarky reply. Although what I meant was I wished we were there under different circumstances.