Rejection made easy

I find humor in the self-addressed stamped envelopes that I include with all of my query letters to literary agents sent via the post office. Along with my titillating one-page query outlining my book, my qualifications, and all the other goodies I spent more than a year writing, I include this pre-stamped envelope. This envelope is included with my query for the sole purpose of rejecting my query. It just all seems very negative.

I suppose I have the option of not including the SASE. From my point of view, it would elevate the positive nature of my query because it wouldn't be weighed down by that rejection envelope. But, if I did that, then those literary agencies not interested in my book proposal wouldn't even make the effort to properly reject me (but then I would have had nothing to dance on either). I realize that most of these agencies get hundreds or thousands of query letters like mine -- well not exactly like mine -- every single month. And I should feel grateful that they take the effort to dignify my query with a somewhat dignified form letter. I guess I'd rather have that form letter than the total silence I've also gotten from some agencies. Those agencies that chose NOT to reply also received a SASE. And what did they do with my SASE? Did they steam off the stamp and use if for something else? Or did they just toss it -- stamp and all -- into the recycle bin? It all seems very wasteful. That is why I love the agencies that use phrases on their submission guidelines that go something like this: "We accept queries by regular mail and through email, but prefer email (saves trees!)."

And email submission are very gratifying. I press send and it's instantly waiting to be read. Not to mention, accepting email queries lets me know that their agency is firmly rooted somewhere in the 21st Century. The post office isn't completely antiquated just yet. Although with online bill pay, and email with Auntie, and videoconferencing with Grammy, and iTunes, I don't really need the post office all that much. Oh, except for delivering my packages from eBay and Amazon.com. That I could not do without.

A whole new elevation

It's all about attitude. If you feel confident, you look confident. If you look confident, you feel confident. If you're dressed for the job you want, you're more likely to get it. Or so the saying goes.

All I was doing was going out to run a couple of errands, but as I was getting ready to leave the house, I skipped over the comfortable and sensible shoes and slipped into some sassy heels. And as soon as my foot was inside the shoe, it was as if their powers equaled those contained in Spiderman's seductive black suit.

I was a new woman, not just a mom heading out to get stuff done. I felt fabulous and it showed. As I walked through the parking lot at one of the stores, a man walking near me noticed the click of my heels on the pavement and said, "You can't sneak past anyone in those. It's the sound of confidence."

I couldn't have agreed more.

The opposite of mysterious

I'm not as mysterious as I think I am.

Another rewarding Thursday night out with friends was coming to an end as I started chatting with one of the regular bartenders. Only instead of mixing drinks that night, he was on the other side of the bar enjoying a drink of his own. We've exchanged pleasantries over the past couple of months and he remembered my name that night. "Hello Suzanne. Did you have a good time tonight?" I said yes. He asked if I also go out on Fridays and Saturdays. I said no. "So you are married, then?" It was more a statement than a question. Without hesitation, his follow-up question: "And how many kids do you have?" I said two. Then he asked if I had to work in the morning. I said yes, as soon as my kids get up. "So you're a housewife." I cringed at the use of that word.

I'd like to think I'm so much more. But I'm not. I like to come up with fancy ways to explain what it is that I do: chief operating office of my household; executive chef; activities and social coordinator; art director; personal shopper. Oh yes, and aspiring author.

But really, I'm a housewife. I told him that he really isn't allowed to say that. No one wants to be called a housewife. He just smiled his Irish smile and said that his mom is a housewife too. Then, just as the lights were coming on and the bar was emptying out, he invited me to an after party at his house. I declined and slinked away with my housewifery label burned across my forehead. I couldn't believe he had me all figured out in five seconds flat.

I'm not as mysterious as I think I am.

You want a piece of me?

I found them today. They have been neatly stacked just three feet from my keyboard for months. They were on top of my book proposal and it was time for them to go. I scattered them on the floor, put on some of my favorite dancing shoes, and jumped on them while music played loudly until I felt that their negativity was completely gone. The hold they had over me has been replaced with the joy that I get from dancing around my office. So there!

Why was I saving all of those initial rejection letters from literary agents? What was I saving them for exactly? To make myself feel rejected? Was I going to frame them? Where they supposed to motivate me to work harder? Because they certainly haven't motivated me at all. They sucked the wind out of my enthusiasm for writing. They drained my drive. They fizzled my fire. Just because those 20 people didn't want my book project does not mean that I'm not going to succeed. It just means that those particular agents were not for me.

Being rejected is just part of the game. Those letters weren't the first rejection in my life (that started in junior high school), and they won't be the last. They were just part of the process. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Not sure what I'll do with them once I pick them up. I might file them away so that when my book is published and I'm hugely successful, I can go back and read them and laugh about how crappy they made me feel. But I'm already feeling better now they have been stepped on. I've taken back my enthusiasm. I've taken back my drive. Sometimes it's hard to remember that I am in control of my destiny. Not some agent. Not some rejection letter. Not a stack of dirty laundry. Not a sink full of dishes. Whether or not I success is up to me. No one else can do that for me. And I'm not ready to give up.

It's good to be wanted

I have not done anything concrete that can be added to my resume since I was working as the official mom blogger for Oprah two-and-a-half years ago. I'm not saying that I haven't been working. To the contrary. But parenting two kids and writing a 24,000-word, 56-page book proposal isn't something resume-worthy--at least to my knowledge.

So since I have no actual job and nothing of note to keep that resume-thingy fresh, I've decided to start volunteering for the Taproot Foundation. A couple of weeks ago, I went to an orientation to find out more about how Taproot works and how I can contribute. During the two-hour meeting, I definitely felt a little out of place. Most of the people in that room were consultants and project managers and accountants and web designers. Then there was me--the writer. Just when I felt like slinking out of the room with my typing skills tucked between my legs, the orientation leader said something that made me want to show off my calloused finger tips. He said that for every two people in that meeting, there were two other people who wanted to be a part of Taproot. They were turned down because they didn't have the right skills. So they actually wanted me to be there. It wasn't just a one-sided desire on my part to be a do-gooder.

Being a good writer is a skill. Not everyone can do it, even if anyone who wants a platform can have one on the Internet. Sometimes it's just hard to remember that even though I'm not currently getting paid for my skills, they still exist. And they are worthy. Someday soon I hope to figure out how to merge one with the other.

Profound Love Found: Do you like me?

The following note is from a box of love notes recently found in my mother's attic from junior and senior high school. Sadly, they are not dated. I'll be posting them here from time to time as I stroll down memory lane. I will include all typos and grammatical errors.

Suzanne,

Hi How's life? Fine here. Do you still like Joe? Did you tell him that you don't like him? Do you like me? Will you go out with me? I like you. Do you like anyone else? If you still like Joe you can go out with him again. I used to like Kelly but she likes Angelo L.

Gotta Go

Your (Boy)friend,
Angelo

p.s. w/b/s
p.s.s tell me all answers in Spanish

Which is true?
Suzanne -n- Joe
TLF Suzanne -n- Angelo

Score
Love: 1
Heartbreak: 1

The tears finally came

The first week of kindergarten came to an end and my tears finally flowed. And it wasn't in any way I could have anticipated. It has nothing to do with R growing up. It has nothing to do with letting my first born out of my sight. It has nothing to do with an inability to let go.

We were enjoying the summer concert series in our local park. The weather was perfect. The park was packed, and the area in front of the stage was filled with kids dancing around, jumping, and riding their bikes. Two girls came up to R while we swayed to the music. His face lit up as soon as he recognized them from school. He was making friends and was so proud to tell me that they were in his class.

The blonde girl with curls leaned over and touched R's shoulder and said playfully, "chase me Riley." With that command, she and the other schoolmate ran off as fast as two healthy five year olds run. R smiled a goofy smile and started out after them. Only his body wouldn't cooperate. He trotted awkwardly. He wanted desperately to run after them. To chase them. To catch them and continue the game. His face was full of frustration and there was nothing I could do to help him make his body move faster. To be more agile. To be more energetic. To be more normal. To be healthy.

That is when the tears came. They stung my cheeks. They stung my heart.

I desperately wanted to scoop him up and tell him everything was going to be okay. But all I could do was watch him struggle and curse the rotten heart he was born with. I ached in a helpless way I haven't felt since he was in the hospital and consumed with pain after one of his surgeries. Only at the park, there was no fentenol or morphine to remedy the situation. After a minute of trying to catch them, he stopped with exhaustion and sat down on the pavement. That is when I went to him. With exasperation in his voice, he said: "I just can't go anymore."

His words reminded me of how I have felt many times during this journey. There have been many times when I felt I couldn't go anymore. But somehow, I just kept going. I kept finding a way to get out of bed. I kept finding a way to drive myself to and from the hospital. And I continue to find ways to get past all the what-ifs and I try to not think too much about what is to come. I just keep going. As we sat on the ground, I hugged him. And then I said that when he was ready, he could get up and try again--if he wanted to.

On second thought, maybe my tears at the park were about R growing up and my inability to let go. I'm so afraid of the struggles he will face. The physical challenges. The teasing. His frustrations. I can't help but worry about how the world will treat him. But while I'm affected by all the experiences he will have as a result of his health problems, this is his journey. And being different and slower and more tired is a reality for him. I cannot protect him. I cannot shelter him. Nor can I filter the feelings that go along with all of that.

School starts a new phase for him academically and physically. It is certainly something I had anticipated. But it was only all in theory, sort of the way you imagine what it will be like having a newborn. But until you're in it, you don't really know. And like having a newborn, it's going to be harder than I imagined.

The things I cannot do

I missed the first PTA meeting. I missed Back to School Night. I missed the ice cream social. And I think it's all been logged into my permanent file.

It's one week in and I feel as if I've already been judged. And not in a your-such-a-great-parent way. No, this is about me not being like all those other well-groomed parents wearing sweater sets and wiping away tears as their kids walk into the classroom without looking back for one last reassuring smile. I'm not like those parents asking how they can help out and when they can start volunteering as the classroom parent. That would not describe me at all.

I would fall on the other side of the bell curve. I'm happy to only have one kid to take care of for five hours, five days a week now that R is in kindergarten. As a result, I'm just not able to jump enthusiastically into a new role as a school-helper-volunteer filled with responsibilities and expectations when what I really need--at least for a couple of weeks--is a respite. I need just a little bit of time to breathe after being the primary caretaker of two kids for five years.

I'm sure I'm approaching this whole education thing from the wrong point of view. And the wrong point of view--just to be clear--would be my point of view. My point of view that sees elementary school as a government-funded childcare center. One that provides a well-rounded curriculum without depleting my bank account. So I'm happy to have a break five days a week. I'm happy to not be paying several hundred dollars a month for preschool.

Yes, the more appropriate point of view would be the teacher's point of view and the school system's point of view. R doesn't really care that I'm not volunteering in his class or helping out with "arts in action." But from the school's point of view, where they are experiencing a budget shortfall and are at risk for losing art and music and physical education programs, they cannot wait for me to take a breather. They need me to offer up my energy and my time and my enthusiasm.

But it isn't going to happen today. In the meantime, I'll avoid one-on-one chats with R's teacher. I'll avoid the parents chattering over who's volunteering for what committee. Perhaps I'll look into filling other needs, like the request on the wall for antibacterial soap for the classroom. That I can handle.

The big K

Many of the women I know have kids starting kindergarten next week. It seems that most of them are feeling quite sad about this milestone because it officially means that their babies are growing up. But just as I was not sad when my kid started preschool, I'm not the tiniest bit sad about kindergarten.

Yes, I'm looking forward to a five-day-a-week break, but mostly I think I'm excited about school--and not sad--because I wasn't sure if my kid would ever make it to kindergarten. He isn't in the hospital. He can walk and talk. He can do math and read. And as of today, he can ride a bike without training wheels. Sure he gets tired more easily than other kids, but for the most part, he will blend right in. For me, it's a relief. We made it this far.

Profound Love Found: Bad news and good news

I recently found a box of love notes in my mother's attic that I saved from junior high school and high school. They are jewels from my past. I love that many of them are folded in the proper way that notes should be folded before being shoved into the slots of a metal locker. Kids today have texting. They have MySpace. They have the instant messaging. But there is no paper trail. There is nothing to happen upon 15 or 20 years later. I will be posting these notes here from time to time. I will even include the typos. Without further adieu:

Dear Suzanne,

How are you? I'm fine. I have some bad news and some good news. I now you like me alot - But I do not like you as much as you like me. You are very nice and pretty but I just do not want to go out with you. I wrote this note not to be mean or anything. I just wrote it to tell you that I do not like you. First maybe we should get to know me and get to know you before I ask you to go out with me or if you ask me. I am trying not to hurt your feelings but maybe later in the year I will no more about you. I hope we will be really really really really good good friends. I do not no what to say because I think I tolled you what I had to say. I now you are going to ask me why I do not want to go out with you.

Your Good Good Good Friend Greg S...
Bye!
P.S. I am sorry

Greg and I did not become "really really really good good friends." If anything, after this rejection letter, I'm sure I avoided him at all costs.

Score
Love: 0
Heartbreak: 1