Please Don't Hate Me

Friendly reminder that my chapbook, One Good Thing, is now available from Bottlecap Press. Not into poetry? That’s okay, this is a book of prose poems, which may be more up your alley if traditional or free-verse poems aren’t really your thing. Don’t know what makes something a “prose poem”? Don’t worry, nobody really knows! One Good Thing is fun and sad, optimistic and melancholic, nostalgic and of the moment. There’s a little something for everyone and I really think you’ll like it!

Order your copy here!

And then laugh at the irony of me posting this reminder after you’ve continued on to read the rest of this post.

Here’s the dream: your novel writes itself and it’s even better on the page than it ever was in your head. People love it. It’s an instant New York Times Bestseller. The industry won’t stop giving it awards. Reese Witherspoon picks it for her book club and then options it for a movie or maybe a tv series. She chooses Blake Lively to star as the main character who you not-so-loosely based on yourself, and though you are older and look nothing like Blake Lively, now people who don’t know you and have never seen you maybe think that you do. The movie is a huge success, with nothing but glowing reviews that all mention the quality of the source material. People love your work. They worship your words. Even Blake is jealous of you. “I may be beautiful in a way that defies reality and human evolution, but I could never write the way you write,” Blake says. “My beauty is nothing compared to your words.”

In reality, I pester my friends to help me spread the word about my new book and spend way too much time carefully crafting promotional tweets that get hardly any engagement. I hate this part. You think you’re through the hard stage of actually writing the thing and bringing it into being, only to be greeted with the horrific task of repeatedly talking about it so that maybe (fingers crossed!) a handful of people will read it. I don’t like bothering people. I will make my own life so much harder than it needs to be just to avoid mildly bothering someone else. But unless you are one of the super rare writers who are gifted an actual marketing plan from a team of people who get paid to bother others on your behalf, you’re the one stuck doing the bothering. Some people are good at this and I am not one of them—it’s a nightmare for an anxious depressive who is perpetually concerned that people are mad at her for simply existing.

Fake it till you make it, my mother says, so I plaster on a happy face and hope you don’t see my hands trembling as I tell you that my book is really good and I think you would like it. (All the while thinking, please don’t hate me, please don’t hate me, please don’t hate me.)

The funny thing is that I didn’t use to have to fake it. I wanted to be seen. My family has these old home videos that my parents recently converted from VHS to DVD—nothing like upgrading to a nearly extinct technology! My childhood face constantly pops up in front of the camera to tell a joke, share a story, beg my dad to catch this on film before I do some absurdly boring bullshit like spin in a circle or take the most pathetic little jump off the end of a diving board. Watch me! Watch me! Watch me! I am so open to attention. So desperate for it. Watching these videos, I am embarrassed for my younger self, but I also kind of admire her. She was bold and blunt and thought herself worthy of admiration.

I suppose I am still desperate for attention, but far less open now to the idea that I am worthy of anything. Writing is one kind of vulnerability. Publishing is another. Asking people to pay for and actually read what I wrote feels like setting myself on fire.

I am having a tough week because I have arrived at the point of my postpartum experience where my hormones shift in a way that manifests as sudden, intense panic. It happened with my firstborn and it’s happening again. Last time, my panic attack thankfully hit while I was walking to work, and though it was scary and overwhelming, at least I wasn’t in any real danger. This time, it hit while I was driving to pick up my son from camp. It had been a frantic, busy day. I was already running late and traffic was worse than I had expected and some fuse inside me popped. In an instant, my whole body felt like it had been sent hurtling through space. My heart started racing and my limbs were trembling, and it took all of my focus to carefully pull onto a side street to stop for a moment and collect myself before I continued on my way. By the time I finally arrived to pick up my son, I felt shaky and unstable and nearly burst into tears at the sight of him, but instead, I plastered on a happy face and wrapped him up in a big hug, and asked him to tell me the most fun thing about his day. See? I can fake it when I need to. Or at least, I can for a little while. On our way back home, we were listening to the radio and the song “Try” by Pink came on, and I started to cry when she sings the chorus:

Look, I know how pathetic it sounds to be an almost-forty-year-old woman sobbing to a song that a fourteen-year-old girl might play on repeat after the boy she likes asks someone else to the Homecoming dance. Postpartum hormones don’t make any sense and they don’t give even half a shit about your need to maintain at least an iota of dignity.

It’s a million small forces—some personal, some cultural—that take a child who makes sure she has your full attention before doing anything because she’s confident you won’t want to miss a second of what she has to offer, and turns her into a woman who feels the need to apologize before suggesting that you might perhaps, just maybe, kind of a little bit, if you wanted to consider just giving it a shot, find at least a little something you enjoy in this thing she put a ton of time and effort into creating.

I am trying to find my way back to that younger part of me who believed people were excited to see everything I was putting out in the world.

Over the weekend my son and a couple of his friends set up a lemonade stand and bake sale to raise money to protect wildlife habitats. Normally a shy, nervous kid, my son really came out of his shell during the two hours they were out in the summer heat slinging sweet treats and cool drinks. With the help of a friend to bolster his bravery, he even approached strangers in the park and encouraged them to come buy some lemonade and “save the animals.” I was so proud of him.

A hard thing about being a parent pursuing a career in a creative field is that you can’t let the near-constant disappointment of rejection, the ever-present specter of failure, get in the way of your parenting. Sorry, dear, Mommy can’t play right now because she’s too busy feeling sad about how many agents and editors think she’s a crappy writer. The number of times I’ve received crushing news and then immediately had to turn around and pretend to be an energetic race car when all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and cry for a bit, is too many to count. But I try to use my disappointment, and the fact that I keep going despite it, as a lesson for my kid. And I’m trying to show him (and myself) that the things we put our time and energy into creating are worthy of recognition.

On our way up to the park to set up the lemonade stand, towing a wagon full of cups, gallon jugs of freshly mixed Country Time, and containers packed with baked goods, my son worried about what would happen if nobody came to buy lemonade. What if no one who walked by had any money? What if people had money but they didn’t like lemonade or brownies? What if he barely raised any money to protect wildlife habitats? Would the animals still be okay? Would it be all his fault if they weren’t? Maybe we shouldn’t do this, he suggested. It would be too hard. It was too scary. He didn’t want to have to talk to anyone and ask them to support his efforts. He didn’t want to fail.

I told him there was no way to know what would happen until it happened and if nobody bought any lemonade, that would suck and he would feel sad, but it wouldn’t be the end of the world. He would survive the disappointment.

just because it burns doesn’t mean you’re gonna die

You’ve gotta get up and try, try, try

He raised $200 for the Rainforest Trust.

Heads up for caregivers of young kids, elementary school teachers, or anyone who wants to support bringing great writing to young readers:

My kid-lit magazine, Little Thoughts Press, is now offering print subscriptions as part of our ko-fi membership options. There are lots of different tiers and price points to select from and awesome bonus benefits in addition to the print subscriptions and the wonderful feeling you’ll get knowing that you’re helping introduce young readers to a wide variety of creative voices. If you have kid-lit readers at home, you’re a writer yourself, or you just want to show your support for encouraging kids to develop a love of reading and writing, please check out our membership options and become a supporter!

If you sign up for any membership tier by July 24th, you’ll be automatically entered into our giveaway!

In a world where there is so much to read, thank you for reading Other Thoughts! If you enjoy this newsletter and know someone else who would like it as well, share this post and encourage them to subscribe!