Grief and the ADAA

I just had a piece published on the Anxiety and Depression Association of America's website. They have a great library of personal stories that you can filter via disorder (anxiety, panic attacks, bipolar, grief, substance abuse, etc.), and I'm a huge believer in the power of connecting with others through stories. 

Over the years, I have been in individual therapy, and I've spent years in couples therapy. I spent a year in a support group for families who have children with congenital heart defects and three years in a support group for bereaved parents. (Just need to acknowledge how fortunate I am to have health insurance to cover chunks of the costs... access to this stuff should be a right, not a privilege.) And through all of it, I've learned a lot about self-care and supporting others who are struggling. 

It feels good to be reading. It feels good to be running. It feels good to be writing. It feels great to get published. Go forth and read!

Grief and self-promotion

I used to write while wearing platform shoes in the hopes it would help build my writing platform. It didn't help. For years, I've held onto the illusion that writing and sharing powerful stories was enough. I wanted to focus on my craft and not on the promotion part of being a writer. But it's not working, even though I have a small arsenal of dedicated readers - thank you readers. So, over the weekend, I started using TikTok to connect with other writers and people who read memoir (I have 17 followers!). It’s a bit nerve-wracking, since writers are usually invisible, but I've decided to be brave. That said, I’ll think I’ll dust off those platform shoes and give them another try as well. It can't hurt, right? In the meantime, if you're on TikTok, check me out.

Grief and procrastination

Love in a cup

It’s been almost two months of procrastinating, of avoiding, of making excuses. Come on, raise your hands if you can relate to the idea of wanting to hide behind, well, anything, instead of doing that thing that needs doing. I can already see some tips of fingers pointing toward the ceiling of those shy hands not wanting to admit that they, too, have put something off. Come on, who’s with me?

What’s your excuse and what have you avoided doing, you ask? Well, I've failed to promote on this very personal soapbox of mine the June issue of Six Hens in which I write about an unfortunate night on my journey through adolescence. I've blamed my procrastination on the fear of hearing judgy voices that might suggest that I deserved to have a near stranger rape the 15-year-old version of myself more than 25 years ago.

But honestly, it has nothing to do with that.

Promoting something here that has nothing to do with grief means I have to admit to myself that I actually had the brain capacity to write about something besides losing my 11-year-old son. Sure, many people reading this know I launched a snazzy lit mag last year in grief’s wake. And managing all of that takes a lot of un-grief-related brain cells. But after writing there and here exclusively about how much having your kid die fucks you up in the most twisted and permanent way, promoting my magazine that includes a story about my ancient history feels all wrong. It feels like I've accidentally cracked open some door to the new normal, a horrible place I’ve read so much about in grief magazines that spew feel-good, grief propaganda...like #7 in this article. 

I associate the idea of new normal with I'm doing better. New normal is a place that I will reject with every inhale I draw for as long as my lungs grant me the power to do so. As if you could wake up one day and realize you're actually not all that heartbroken anymore that your totally awesome kid died. As if there is such a magical place with unicorns and rainbows. If there was such a place, the streets would be lined with Ambien and Zoloft and Ativan. I don’t want anything normal because life without my son will never be normal. Even if you put an enticing adjective like new as a disclaimer in front of it. 

But *why* does it matter that I managed to write about something else? And *why* does it matter if I promote it here on this soapbox?

Perfecting the art of not doing stuff 

I suppose it matters because this soapbox has been Riley's digital shrine. My outpouring of soul and love and loss and heartbreak to him, for him, and about him. And promoting that other thing would be the first time in two years that I have put something here that didn't include him. I don't want another millimeter of time or space or thought or love between us. And anything that doesn't include him feels like stepping on to a path of letting him go. Of hopping on that new normal bus and rolling away. No matter how many times I tell myself that it's not. It's not. It's not. It's not... 

With all that said, without further delay, only two months behind schedule, check out the 5th Issue of Six Hens. It’s rad. Just like Riley's love of Tabasco. And garlic. And maps. And how he would hum when doing his homework. And how when he picked up a cello for the first time, he said, "It's like I've been playing it my whole life." And how, the day after we got baby chicks, he was the first one dressed and ready for school so that he could hold them for a bit before it was time to leave. "I love them," he cooed. So there. 

Grief and quiet, powerful moments

Cover art for the second issue of Six Hens.

Like glossy carpet, photographs lie all over my son’s bedroom floor. They’re spread out, poured from tipped-over boxes. They’re stacked in piles. They stand in a line at the back of his desk. It’s the same boy over and over again. There he is posed in his Astros uniform. There he is holding hands with a friend outside the Exploratorium. There he is, face pressed against his brother’s as they concentrate on something just outside the frame. There he is perched proudly in front of the 1000-piece puzzle he completed the summer before starting second grade. There we are, tongues out, eyes wide attempting our silliest expressions on his 10th birthday.

There are 11 ½ years of regular moments. There are 11 ½ years of milestones. On the morning of his 6th heart operation last October, when he sat next to his brother and two step siblings in the waiting room, how could I have known the last picture of them would be captured? As doctors escorted him through the double doors, his voice fell into my ears for the last time. “I love you, too,” it said.

“I don’t know what to do without you,” I say to his wardrobe, to the assorted stuffed animals, his map of the United States dotted with pushpins. “I don’t know who I am anymore. I don’t know how to be me, without you.” Waiting for a reply, I hear a skateboard roll past our house, a child shouting to a friend, laughter. I’m reminded of a day when our neighbor’s dad gave Riley a tandem ride down our hill on his skateboard. Riley beamed. That was probably one of the few moments where he felt really alive, invincible. Normal. You see, his single ventricle heart prevented him from having energy to master physical feats like skateboarding. Or the wherewithal to endure the falls that go with them.

As I stared toward the laughter, lost in memory, my husband found me sitting on Riley’s sleeping bag with a stuffed penguin in my arms. “He’s everywhere and he is nowhere,” I say. “I don’t understand. I can’t understand.” I bury my face in his cotton-filled sleeping companion, searching for my son’s scent.

“I’m not sure it will ever make sense,” he said softly, looking into this closet of neatly folded t-shirts. We scanned the room, me wanting to inhale what he had exhaled. There were puzzles and LEGO and books and posters on the walls. “These are all of his things; he’s touched all of these things.” It was only a couple of weeks earlier that I spent the weekend in his bed wearing his t-shirts, his watch, his Rainbow Loom necklace. “And look, he forgot to put his socks away,” he added, trying unsuccessfully to tether a smile to my grief.

After my husband wandered back into the house, I found myself curious about the woman in all of those photos. She’s smiling, laughing, joyful. I studied her long blonde hair. It cascades down the sides of her neck onto her chest. Through the years of photos, she’s the same. Even when a hat covers her hairline or glasses outline her eyes, her long strands follow her through the years. The baby grows into the toddler, who becomes the Little Leaguer and viola player; the long locks are consistent. Like a mother’s love, I think. Through long hospitalizations, holidays, separation and divorce, it’s there. Through new love and step-family and pets, it’s there. As his heart slowed last October and squeezed for the last time, it was there.

Four months later, it was still there. I pulled my fingers through it. It was coarse and dry from years of highlights and lowlights. I dragged a clump of neglected strands across my cheek. Frayed ends scratched dry skin. Pulling at brittle strands, pieces broke. I kissed the penguin and tucked him into the sleeping bag before heading into bathroom light.

“Who are you?” I demanded of the reflection. I stared at the her; she stared back, vertical crease between her eyes, eyebrows pinched, unrelenting furrowed brows clenched. I ran my fingers over the pinched skin trying to smooth it out, relax the angry, heartbroken muscles. There were several inches of dark growth near the scalp. “You were so happy, weren’t you? Smiling and laughing. You ignorant, stupid woman.”

Through the basket under the sink I rummaged until my hand grasped my husband’s beard trimmer. Inserting the plug into the outlet, I stared into her unblinking hazel eyes. “You don’t know anything about me.” My thumb pushed power into the clippers and vibrations ran through my arm. “Fuck you.” Blades skimmed across the ends of my hair sending clippings into the air like dust. I couldn’t go any further. For a long time, I stared her down, beaming hatred toward her, the clippers buzzing, threatening to destroy that long-haired stranger.

After a few minutes, I silenced the clippers, too chicken to shave it off. Instead, I retrieved the scissors from the kitchen knife block. Clasping a fistful of hair, I chopped through one side, then the other. Then, pulling clumps away from my scalp, I chopped those too. Again and again, I cut and sawed and chopped until any visual sign of that happy woman was gone.

Like a mound of severed limbs, a heap of hair lay on the countertop. I stared into her eyes again. Without hair to hide behind, the dark rings from exhaustion and grief stood prominently above her cheekbones. While I didn’t recognize the short-haired stranger either, she was scraggly, ugly, and looked how I felt on the inside.

Certainly my son’s death was a defining moment, the tectonic plates crashing, destroying the landscape of my life. But what has surprised me is how many defining moments have rippled in its wake. As I’m learning from talking to other grief-stricken mothers at a weekend retreat, the deaths themselves knocked our lives off course, but their aftermaths continue to mold and shape us just the same. Those smaller defining moments are equally powerful, even though they are quieter, less public, internal shifts.

Every time I see the short-haired woman, it’s a visual reminder that I am different, physically altered as well as mentally and emotionally altered by my son’s death. And I still cringe whenever someone comments on how cute my new haircut is.

The second issue of Six Hens is now live. Go read and feel something.

Suzanne Galante, Editor in Chief

Grief and Defining Moments

Introducing Six Hens

During the last few months, grief has edged ever-so-slightly from the center to make space for creativity. It is with great honor that I introduce Six Hens, a literary magazine featuring true stories about life's defining moments. They are moments that color events in our lives, breathe life into projects, make us shift, shape, and remember. They define us; they redefine us. They are bitter, sweet, and flavor the spectrum in-between. They create the outlines that we step into. They provide the lily pads from which we leap. This magazine is me leaping...Welcome to Six Hens.

Suzanne Galante, Editor in Chief

Take a look at me now

On most days, my office is my bedroom, my desk is my bed, and my knees serve as my table. The dress code is stretchy slacks and a cotton top. It has to double as a hiking outfit and it needs to hide dirt from young hands and camouflage dog fur.

Failed selfie attempt

Monday was different. It was a rare dress-up day. I found some slacks and a top that when worn together qualified me as a certified professional. A professional what, I’m not entirely sure. At the very least, I didn't look like a slob. All the fuss was because I took a meeting with a woman from my undergraduate alma mater. Our talk took me on a walk through the years I lived in Boston, the Stetson West dorm, my radio show at WRBB, and lounging on the Quad. I thought of my semester abroad in London. I reminisced about my senior year co-op in Boulder, CO.

Almost full-length selfie

I'll admit that I was worried about the meeting. I was worried what she might think of the life I’ve made for myself since leaving Northeastern 18 years ago. Yes, I was a reporter for a handful of years, but for most of those years I have been raising kids full-time—aside from my stint as the official mom blogger for Oxygen Media, getting my MFA, and writing a book. As I recounted all of those things to her, I realized I have accomplished so much since leaving the workforce (in addition to raising lovely young humans). My accomplishments haven’t been along a traditional job path, but they are not insignificant. Not to mention a chunk of these were accomplished while I was going through a divorce and single parenting. 

Got it! Cute, right?

Sure, the meeting had undertones of wanting me to donate with more regularity to the university that launched me into a writing career. I should be doing that more often. There were many terms that I needed extra grants, scholarships, and loans to pay tuition. Talking about my college years gave me a renewed appreciation for young people who are facing more competition to get into school and higher price tags. The percentage of kids going to college has risen by 48 percent since 1990 while the cost has tripled. It’s scares me to imagine what it be like 10 years from now when I might have four kids in college. But that's a side point...

In the meantime, my stylish outfit and my motivational chat have prompted me to revisit goals and amend deadlines now that the kids are back in school. Along the way I just might get a little more dressed up every now and again--even if I'm just headed to my four-legged office. Or perhaps I'll relocate my office to a cafe.

A man from my past

Like the air rushing out of an untied balloon, the Exploratorium emptied patrons onto San Francisco sidewalks at closing time. I was one of them, along with my children and my friends and their children. I heard “Suzanne” come from behind my shoulder, a man’s voice. It wasn’t a shout of certainty, but more a gentle question. I wasn’t even sure I heard it.

As I turned toward the voice, a familiar frame in a gray suit greeted me with a warm smile. It was my former boss from TheStreet.com. He was there with his wife, and father, and children. I suspect he snuck out of work early that Thursday afternoon. I haven’t seen him in at least 12 years. We introduced each other to our children, asked how the other was doing, made promises to get together at some point to catch up—which I hope we do.

But what struck me as ironic is that my old boss appeared—a physical reminder of my professional life all those years ago—as I’ve been holding a deep conversation with myself about the road not taken. The one where I went back to work after I had my babies and continued along with my editorial career. What kind of publication would I be working at now? Where would my name fall on the masthead? What jobs would I have used to leapfrog across the editorial pond? What magazines or newspapers would be coveting my skills and leadership with all of my years of experience?

My husband recently passed his 17-year anniversary at his job. And I’ve wondered what I’ve done for more than 17 years, aside from inhale and exhale. The list is short--I lived in the small town where I was born; I’ve lived in California, I’ve been a vegetarian. They are passive things, insignificant things. For nearly a year, my neighbor has been job-hunting for a full-time position after being out of work for more than a decade to be at home with her own babies. She's been facing the challenge of edging her way back into the workforce. It’s all so daunting and humbling and discouraging.

I’m not looking for work. I still have my book to finish—I’m so close! And I still have parenting to do. But it does beg the question.

It is strange to realize I’m so outdated. Instead of dwelling on the fact that the business world, the editorial world went on without me, I need to look ahead. My kids are growing up and I need to begin unraveling the mystery of what I will doing with the next phase of life. I’m certain I can do anything if I only knew what it was I wanted to do. In the meantime, I’ll follow up with my old boss and see when we can catch up.

Between past and present

I woke up in my old house on the hill the other day. It was familiar like the shape of my toes and also confusing, like trying to identify the vegetarian options on a menu etched in foreign words in an especially carnivorous country.

I haven’t lived in that house in seven years.

For a split second, an entire world existed. I was married to my high school sweetheart. I typed in a red-walled office. I had two babies. With my eyes yet to open in the morning glow, I could see the way the light sliced through the vertical blinds and landed on the dresser. I could anticipate the sponginess of the carpeting if I’d pushed myself towards the bathroom. I could hear static from the baby monitor.

There was heaviness with each inhale. There was the ache of a strained marriage. There was the uncertainty of hospitals that cinched my world for four-and-a-half years. It was so real and yet, it felt wrong. 

That’s because it wasn't real.

And as quickly as it sprung up, that world vanished. Once I opened my eyes, I was in my current house, married to a different man. My world that includes four kids and two chickens and a rescue dog appeared and relaxed me.

I teeter between these worlds consciously and regularly as I polish my manuscript.

During the day as I write, I live in that house on the hill with the trumpet flowers that line the fence. I am married to the man I made babies with. We trek to the hospital and doctor appointments and blood tests. Our relationship slowly disintegrates as each of us learns to accept our son’s medical diagnosis and physical limitations.

And when I stop typing and editing and shaping that story for the day, I am married to a different man. We help our kids with homework, drive them to swimming lessons, and read Lemony Snicket before bed. And our marriage is new, strong, and brimming with communication, intimacy, and love. We proactively see a family therapist to keep it that way.

I haven't decided if this teetering is healthy or unhealthy, good or bad. But it’s real. And some days, like the other day, it’s very confusing. Straddling these two worlds isn’t forever, but some days I wish the past was just the past.

The lost noun

Someone who loves is a lover. Someone who fails is a failure. Someone who disappoints is a disappointment. Someone who drinks is a drinker. Someone who learns is a student. Someone who teaches is a teacher. But what is someone who experiences a loss?

There certainly are a lot of adjectives to describe that person—sad, despondent, bereft, grief-stricken, let down, wounded, hurt, scared, worried—but no nouns come to mind. There are nouns that describe certain kinds of loss. A woman who loses her husband is a widow. Someone who loses a limb is an amputee. But I cannot find that definitive word that encompasses the common life experience of loss. Or more specifically, my loss.

The quest for this particular word started as an exercise from a book I'm reading. The objective was to describe myself using nouns--no adjectives allowed! I came up with daughter, friend, mother, divorcée (silly word, but it is the noun to describe a divorced person), dancer, and writer. But I also wanted a word that encompassed emotional trauma. Without a noun to represent that part of my life, my list doesn’t describe me completely.

When I pushed my son into the world nine years ago, I lost the motherhood I’d hoped for. Lost isn’t a noun, but it encompasses that feeling of not remembering how to breathe or sleep or eat. It encompasses the frustration around having to digest medical jargon. It encompasses the nauseating ache when wandering the hospital looking for the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. It encompasses the shock and disbelief after doctors said my baby only had half a heart and needed several operations. It encompasses that feeling of knowing that every dream I ever had around parenthood was just that—a dream. Yes, I know, birth certificates don’t come with return or exchange policies nor do marriages come with any kind of money-back guarantee.

Life is filled with loss, and when we are faced with it, we are, for a period of time (or forever) something. We’d hoped for something, dreamed of something, and then were given something else. What is that something called?

A friend suggested the noun I’m looking for is survivor. I like that suggestion, in theory. Someone who survives a loss, whatever its magnitude is a survivor. But that word implies past tense, and that the survivor has moved through the loss. But what are we while we’re are in the middle of that emotional trauma? While we are struggling with the loss? Or floundering as a result of a loss? A struggler? A flounder-er? A mourner? We are probably a struggling, floundering, mourning daughter/ friend/ mother/ divorcée/ dancer/ writer. Those are all valid adjectives, but I’m searching for something more definitive than a word that can be easily swapped out by flipping through the pages of a thesaurus.

I cannot let it go. I want to name that thing so that I can complete my list, creating a full and accurate description of me. My loss is just as much a part of me as the way I leap and spin during dance class. It is a part of my essence, the way that writing is part of the way I communicate. A list describing me without including a word around loss, is like trying to describe a sunrise without the word light.

Sure my loss has changed over the years as my son has grown, and it no longer swallows me with every inhale or haunts me every time I close my eyes. It’s chronic, not acute. The noun I'm looking for, I believe, is human.

To be fair, human does not technically complete the exercise. Being human means many things, one of which is someone who experiences loss. But considering human just might be the right noun reminded me that my loss isn’t unique or any more extraordinary than my friend’s loss when her baby died. It isn’t any more unique than my other friend’s losses with each of her failed fertility treatments. My loss isn’t any more painful or stressful than my friends' who have children along the autism spectrum. Experiencing loss is part of what unites us as humans. It’s also part of what makes us individuals and steers us as we identify with all the other nouns on our lists.

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.

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.]

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.

Senior year

-->

School started today. It was the first day of my second year of graduate school. I felt a lot of apprehension.

I don’t need graduate school for the same reasons I needed it last year. Last year, it was a focal point amidst chaos. It provided order with its schedules and assignments and deadlines and reliability. It was something to direct my attention to when I was flailing. When my marriage was crumbling. When I was living in with my kids part of the week and by myself in a little room near school part of the week. When I was alone and lonely. When I walked confidently along San Francisco’s streets even though my insides were wobbly.

It filled the time when I was away from my kids, my broken family.

But I’m not wobbly anymore. I’m not flailing. And while my family is different than it was last year, I don’t consider it broken.

So even though I don’t need graduate school to provide stability in my daily life anymore, it still has a reliable--ahem, substantial--amount of schedules and assignments and deadlines. While those things are worthy and valuable as I strive to finish my book, those things take time away from my kids, my friendships, and other extracurricular activities. Things I have the energy and desire to be fully engaged in, in a way I couldn't be last year.

My hope is that once I’m back in the routine of school, the apprehension I feel will fade. That I’ll embrace the familiarity and focus. If I manage to do that--and I'm keeping my fingers crossed that I will--I suspect I’ll become a student consumed with regular thoughts, like the number of days until graduation.

A sweet, empty dream

It’s so hard when you think that you are on the same page as someone else in your life. And then you aren’t. And instead of wanting to accept that realization, it’s easier to go back to sleep. To not think about it. To forget for just a little while. I wish I was still in bed not thinking about it right now.

For years and years I was on the same page as my significant other. We finished each other’s sentences. We solved each other’s Pictionary drawings when only one line had been drawn: Pilot! Aardvark! We always seemed to know what the other was thinking. What the other was feeling. Until we didn’t anymore. We stopped paying attention. We stopped caring to look, to feel, to wonder. We were no longer in tune with the other person. Then we just let go.

I climbed into my bed that rests on the floor of my San Francisco apartment at 6:30 last night and I slept for three hours. From there, I wasted a bunch of time on Facebook and got text messages from the architect who broke my heart this past summer. “Leave me alone” was all I responded to him. His messages came on the worst day in the hardest week. I was feeling so vulnerable last night and it was tempting to reconnect with him. Not really. Well, maybe just a little bit. But I just ignored him. Leave me alone. Alone.

A couple of days ago, I looked at a house. A house that I’m likely to rent. It will be my house. My stuff. Not our house. Not our stuff. It’s terrifying, even though I have known for many months that Ken and I would eventually not share a house. Moving into my own house is just so much more official than not cohabitating. Even when he’s not in the house where our kids live seven days a week, he’s there. His stuff is there. His picture is there. Our family photos cover the walls. His essence is there. Even if he isn’t physically there at the same time I’m there.

After ignoring the architect, I had a bowl of Moroccan stew and went back to sleep. It was about 11 pm. I didn’t get out of bed until 11 am this morning. That’s 16 ½ hours of being in bed, most of it asleep. And honestly, I could have kept sleeping. I really wanted to keep sleeping. Those hours of denial are so appealing. I think I might also be coming down with something. Or that’s what I’m going to tell myself because that’s easier to accept as the reason of craving hours of nothingness. A sweet, dark dream of nothingness.

But I have a 15-page paper that due tonight. So I should be working on schoolwork. But this has been one of the hardest weeks for me since Ken and I split up in April. My emotions have whipped across the spectrum, like an erratic kite in the sky. And schoolwork is the last thing I seem to be able to manage right now. Because I’m writing about Riley’s early days in the hospital. His first surgery. And that means visiting really dark places. And thinking about what that was like. And wondering about who was there to hold my head as I cried. From there, I wonder who will hold me next time I need to lean against someone in the hospital waiting room.

I wish I was writing about puppies. Or rainbows.

Math is hard

It seems like a simple enough equation: Applying to grad school + getting into grad school = overwhelming sense of joy and accomplishment.

But somehow in my whacked out head, this seemingly-simple math problem is quite complex.

The satisfaction that should come hand in hand with an acceptance letter (or an acceptance email, in this case) is not quite so obvious. In this situation, I’m more confused as to how it came to be that California College of the Arts wants me to be a part of their Creative Writing program. I’m sure my confusion has something to do with low self-esteem, the low self-esteem that often goes hand in hand with long-term, full-time parenting. The longer I’ve not been officially employed, coupled with a stack of rejection letters from literary agents, and another recent rejection from the magazine I covet a byline from makes me hesitate before feeling what seems as a given to others – feeling proud that I was accepted because I deserve to be accepted.

Yes, I’m certainly excited about being accepted to grad school (so far I’ve been accepted to 100 percent of the schools I’ve heard from). But mostly it gives me pause. It makes me feel that there must be something wrong with CCA if they want me. It reminds me of that famous Groucho Marx quote: “I don’t want to belong to any club that will accept people like me as a member.”

I’m sure I’ll get over this initial sense of confusion and then the hard part will begin. Am I ready to make this commitment to school? Am I ready to be a full-time student again? Am I smart enough? I’ve always tried to live by the idea that time is going to pass me by no matter what I’m doing, so I might as well be doing something worth while. Getting my MFA is worth while. And it will be hard. And there will be times when I wonder if I made the right choice. But it will give me a sense of direction. A sense of purpose. Something a wee bit selfish after years of serving the needs of the wee folk in my life. And that is probably a good thing.

So maybe it’s not the math equation that is hard. Maybe what is hard is the sense of feeling like I’m entitled to do something just for me just because I’m worth it. Because I am. It's just hard to remember that sometimes.

(Almost) All the right stuff

I’m wondering if getting an agent to champion my book proposal is like playing Skeeball.

I always want to go for the slots in the upper corners. They are worth 100 points if you get the ball in. But if you miss and your ball falls to the bottom slot, you get zero points. As a result, I usually stick with the safer, and more reliable, 50-point slots. Or at least they are more reliable for me. I'm pretty good at Skeeball.

I attended an all day seminar for people who want to turn their idea into a published book. Outside of having the seminar leader tell me that she wants to take me on as a client so that she can champion my book project, I heard the best thing I could hope for at my one-day seminar on turning your idea into a published book. “You’re doing all the right things,” she told me more than once during the six-hour class sponsored by Media Bistro.

And who doesn’t love praise? It felt great to hear that my hard work has produced a sound strategy and a compelling two-minute pitch. It’s nice to hear that I’m doing the right things when it comes to writing query letters, organizing my book proposal, contacting agents who have represented authors in similar genres, and trying to get a sample chapter published in a magazine. But there is something about that sentiment that is truly disheartening.

If I were truly doing all the right things to get my book published, then I would already have an agent and a book deal and a publisher.

To be fair, she did offer a few suggestions on how to make what I’ve produced even better. I’m going to make those changes, tweak my proposal, and create an online presence around my book idea. So I guess I’m not really doing everything right. Maybe that was just part of a praise sandwich.

Getting praise and decent feedback is like racking up a respectable Skeeball score. But in the quest to get published, only getting half of what I need is like getting nothing at all. Maybe just doing almost everything right isn’t right enough. I need to stop shooting for those reliable 50-pointers.

Hopefully a few more tweaks, along with my boosted confidence, will help me land in that most coveted place -- in the determined hands of an amazing literary agent.

Getting serious

With just two weeks to go before the cut-off date, I decided to apply to grad school to get my MFA with an emphasis on creative writing. I've been meaning to get my masters since I graduated with my BA from Northeastern University more than 10 years ago.

Fortunately the program I'm interested in does not require the GRE, which makes applying at the last minute much easier. So now I'm schmoozing up former editors and colleagues so that they'll write me flowery and glowing letters of recommendation. And with all the work I've done on my book, I have an overwhelming amount of material to pick from when deciding what to submit for my writing sample. I suspect the applying part will be easy and the waiting part will be much more difficult.

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.

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.