Family Tree- August 26, 2010

So this Saturday my mother’s side of the family is having a family reunion. Thinking back, I don’t know that I’ve ever been to one. And isn’t it odd that’s it’s called a “reunion” when you’re more than likely going to spend much of the time being introduced to a throng of kinfolk you’ve never actually met before?

I received an email from a distant cousin I’ve never met (see what I mean?) inviting me. Since I had no clue who she was, I forwarded the email to my mom to see if she did. “I have no idea who this is,” my mom said before urging me to call the number listed at the bottom of the email to inquire. I called, left a message, and waited. My long-lost cousin wrote me back stating that she’d be hosting the reunion, and that she really hoped I’d be attending. She confirmed that in fact I have never met her (what did I tell ya…), but that if I’m anything like my mother and father, she knows I’m good people. Ole shucks…

I’ll be honest, even after her delightful email, I really had no desire to go. I’m sort of a loner (or socially inept, you be the judge), and sadly, I don’t really have binding ties with many of my immediate family (aunts, uncles, cousins) so going to be introduced to distant relatives I don’t know, and may never see again, wasn’t that appealing. Not to mention my Aunt Karen’s funeral felt sort of like what I imagine a family reunion does: unrecognizable relatives coming up kissing and hugging, sharing regretful sentiments like, “it’s been much too long, we shouldn’t let so much time pass without seeing each other,” and, “the family should really get together more, why does it take a funeral to bring us all together?” Frankly, all of that, “we, family, we” stuff makes me a tad uncomfortable.

Anyway, my cousin Ulinda (my Aunt Karen’s daughter) who I am close with, even though we live far apart, called last week to see if I’d be going to the reunion. Being that I love her dearly and that I want to be supportive of her now more than ever, I told her that if she was going, I’d go. She said she was, so it was settled—much to my chagrin—that I’d be going too.

I called my mom to see if she’d be attending and she said my dad wanted to (which was a little bizarre to me since my father doesn’t like crowds of people, much like I don’t ), so if I went she was sure they would go. I told her I was going, she yelled and told my dad, and he confirmed that they’d be going too.

In the days that followed, my niece called, a cousin called, another cousin called, and even my sister called, all to see if I’d be making an appearance at the infamous family reunion, and I quickly realized that something I wasn’t thrilled about was the hot topic that everyone else was thrilled about. But why?

Monday night my sister called me up and started asking me a bunch of questions about me and Mike. Questions like, what city were you born in, what year did you get graduate from high school, what year did you get married, what’s your address, and when did you lose your virginity (just kidding)? She said she was doing the family tree for the reunion and that she planned to hand it out to everyone there. She told me that she had called a lot of our cousins, aunts, and great-aunts, and had found out things about our family that she didn’t know.

She asked me if I knew what the “T” in Booker T. Washington stood for and I said no, feeling like a dud. She excitedly went on to tell me it stands for Tolifero, which is my mother’s maiden name. I was intrigued, and my sister was genuinely pleased with her quest to piece my family’s history together. But would everyone be?

I’m just going to cut completely to the chase. Hellz to the NO!!!!! Why would putting the pieces of a family tree cause friction, trepidation, and worriment to some of my family members?

I’m going to tell you why, it’s because putting the pieces of a family tree together is much like inviting some people’s (and you know who you are) closeted skeletons to Sunday family dinner at grandma’s. While juicy, fascinating, and blog-worthy to me, to those who prefer hiding their past indiscretions, um, it’s not so exciting.

My sister called me this morning disappointed, after my mom advised it wasn’t a good idea. She said that she’s not doing the family tree to pass out to everyone but for her own interest. Quite frankly it’s probably best. But when I hung up with her it really made me think. And even though what I’m about to say may sound completely bonkers, it’s my opinion and I’m entitled to it, so there!

I remember being a kid and my mom’s parents being alive. At the end of every summer they’d throw a “Back to School” cookout, buying each of us grandkids an outfit for the first day of school. Now my mother is one of seven kids, all whom had kids, so this was no cheap venture. But boy was it fun. My Aunt Karen and Uncle Alton would usually bring a bushel or two of crabs, there’d be hot dogs, hamburgers, all kind of salads, fruit punch, chips, cookies, cakes, everything. My cousins and I would play on the swing-set for hours, getting sweaty, and dirty, and sometimes scraped up, but we didn’t care. We were kids, with not many worries at all. Kids who just wanted to play, eat junk food, and get our outfit for the first day of school. Those were the things that were important to us. Those were also the things that connected us at the time.

But years flew by, my grandparents passed away, and the cookouts, and the laughs, and the closeness disappeared. I’ve heard many a cousin, and even my sister, say, “If Grandmom and Pop-pop were still living things wouldn’t be like this. We’d all still be close.” But how do they figure?

Time changes all of us. Through our highs, our lows, our experiences, for some political views, for others religious views, we morph into different people. We think differently, live differently, and hope and dream of different things. Those connections we had as children, running around, climbing the monkey bars, and playing school bus on our bicycles are gone. And I’m not foolish enough to believe that just because we share some of the same blood, we must share in each other’s lives. Sadly, it just doesn’t work that way.

If my grandparents were still alive, maybe we would still get together every summer and have a cookout, but would any of us really, really be close? Would they know that I want to be an author? That I love the absurdity of The Jersey Shore? That I’m particularly sentimental? T hat I want to have a baby with Mike but I’m scared I won’t know how to be a mother? Will I know about their hopes and fears? Would we have each other’s numbers programmed in our cell phones? Would we text often? Call each other up for a laugh or a cry? I don’t know, but I’m thinking not, and that’s just real talk. Because I find I do talk, laugh, and cry with the ones I kept that connection with. Don’t get me wrong, if a member of my family needed me and called, I’d be there. I would. But I don’t think we have to invite each other over for tea because of any familial obligation. We don’t have to uncomfortably smile at each other, making small talk that doesn’t matter, and promises of keeping in touch that will never be upheld. What good does that do anybody?

There are members of my family that I truly love, because we share something other than just our blood. My Aunt Sissy is one of them. We don’t talk often but I genuinely love her. And when we talk, we share real life things. She asks me about my life, and I ask her about hers. She knows how much Hershe and Heidi and my kitties mean to me. We both love Ellen. We laugh heartily about past episodes of her sitcom. She shares my fascination with Good Times, and The Jeffersons. Then there’s my Aunt Doll and my Uncle Georgie. I don’t see them often, but when I do, it feels like old times. We laugh, and I mean belly laugh, about everything. I think there are always those people you stay connected to, no matter the time, or the distance.

But sadly there are just others you don’t, and I’m really okay with that. I don’t feel the need to extend myself, and develop new relationships with people under the umbrella of “family”; I just don’t. And that’s not me being a snob, too good, or anything of the sort. It’s me being a realist. I’m always open to meet new people, but there’s something about the mentality that you must be close with people who are your family, who are really strangers, simply because you’re family, that doesn’t quite jive with me.

My heart goes out to my sister. It really does, because unlike me, she loves the thought of that big, happy, close family and I know she’s disappointed to see that nowadays that picture is not reality, at least not with our clan.

I’m not going to the family reunion. My cousin Ulinda called me Tuesday to say she’s unable to go, and Mike wants to celebrate our anniversary (August 31st) on Saturday, and that’s what I’m choosing to do.

Family to me isn’t about the blood that runs through us, but the REAL ties that bind. Mike is my family. My mother and father, my nieces, my sister, my nephew, and my adorable great-nephew are my family. My cousins I stay in contact with (you know who you are) are my family. My Uncle Georgie, Aunt Sissy, and Aunt Doll are my family. Mike’s mom and dad are my family. Aunt Deb is my family. My Grandma Robinson and Mommom Turner are my family. Mike’s grandma and pop-pop are my family. My animals are truly my family. Chris will always be my family. Renee’s my family, Bobbi’s my family, and even though I haven’t seen her in a while, my friend Karen is my family, just to name a few.

And if there’s going to be a family reunion that I’m going to, it’s going to be one I throw inviting all of these people. Because we wouldn’t have to walk around offering up polite apologies for not staying in touch, because we’ve been in touch and in each other’s lives all along.

Perhaps we should all spend less time forcing those connections and work to build and strengthen the ones we currently have.

I’m closing this as I look down at the text message I just got from Ulinda, sending me a picture of her daughter Tamara on her first day of middle school.


See what I mean….that’s family!

MIA Monday And Not Much To Say Today- August 24, 2010

Well hello all. I’m sorry that I failed to post yesterday as I said I would, but unfortunately I was at a loss for words. Imagine that… I don’t have much more to say today, but I’m hoping writing this will help me to work through some of the things in my head. So, here we go…

The weekend was pretty, um, uneventful. Friday night, Mike took me for a ride in the Camaro. Actually, let me backtrack for a minute…

Friday evening I came home from work and started my normal chores. I’m pretty sure Mike was home already and had already started them (he read last week’s post where I called him out for driving around the neighborhood a few times to ensure all the chores are done before arriving…ha). After all work was done, he asked me what I wanted to do, and being that it was so nice out, and he didn’t get to take his ole girl out the weekend before, I suggested we take the car for a spin. He couldn’t have been happier to oblige. He said he was going to go out to the garage to wipe her down, and I said I was going to go upstairs and read for a bit. We both went our respective ways. Just as I was reading about Stephen King’s reaction when he found out that Carrie was going to paperback, I heard this thunderous noise. I heard it again, and again, and again, and then it was gone. Mike came back into the house and from the kitchen he yelled, “Honey, come down, I want to show you something.” I grudgingly pulled myself out of bed and went down the stairs. You should have seen the smile on his face when I got there.

Mike’s Camaro was owned by a sixty-something year old man with lots of cash, several other big toys in his garage (Corvette, another Camaro, Trans Am, etc.) and a love for the breed. The car has been beautifully restored with the best parts, and all the work has been masterfully done. He crafted these removable steel plates that go over the mufflers to mask the ferocity of the beast. But when uncapped, she truly roars like the lion she is, hence the thunderous sound from before. Mike thought it was a splendid, melodic idea at 6 o’clock on a Friday evening as our neighbors were dining out on their decks, to unleash her rage (uncapping her). And I just stood there thinking, boys will be boys.

Anyway, we took the ole girl out, uncapped and all, and let me tell you, the car is no joke!!! You wouldn’t believe the people that stare at it, point at it, and ogle over it. And you wouldn’t believe the Kool-Aid smile on Mike’s face as he’s driving it. It’s priceless.

Saturday morning I got up bright and early and worked on submission packages until 3:00 PM. Mike cut the grass, power-washed the garage (he can’t have his girl in a dirty garage… I mean, come on), and hung a light for me. All and all, it was a productive day. I made us some dinner, we perused our vast movie collection, picking The Deer Hunter for our viewing pleasure, and nuzzled up in bed to watch it. Oh, and even though the back cover of the DVD case says it’s a feel-good movie, and it’s heartwarming, it’s so NOT. That movie is straight up depressing, and looooooooong! De Niro was brilliant, and there were scenes that Mike and I marveled over, but all in all it was a complete downer.

By 11 o’clock Saturday night I started to feel congested, and then feverish, and then my ears and throat started to hurt. Needless to say I got no sleep that night.

Sunday was the very first “chill” day I’ve had in a long time. Mike and I got up and went to Trader Joe’s and Walmart, but other that we didn’t do much. Oh, we did go to Bob Evans for a late breakfast which was nice. I got the blueberry hotcakes, and Mike got the blueberry stuffed French toast. It was yummy and nice to just spend time with him. We went home, both got in our jammies, settled into bed, finished The Deer Hunter, and drifted off for a little afternoon nappy nap. With the windows opened, and the rain trickling down off of the roof, the setting welcomed our languidness.

So as I said, the weekend was pretty uneventful. The car show was rained out. Out of the twenty-eight submissions I wanted to send out, I only sent eleven. We determined that uncapped, the car is a real beast. I ate pizza, fries, and I did have another one of those damn milkshakes. And I got a cold. Now maybe you can understand why I didn’t post an entry yesterday—there was nothing too interesting to say. I’m not even sure this is worth posting.

I’m going back and reworking chapters 1-5 of my manuscript. The next round of submissions requires those chapters, and I think they need to be stronger. I’m really learning through this process that nothing good comes overnight, and that people like famous actors, authors, and ball players are not a special breed of people, they’re just people (in most cases) that have worked hard for years. In the grand scheme of things, it hasn’t been that long, so I have to just work this and rework this until it’s the best it can be. So this week, I’m reviewing chapters 1-5,taking my time to go line by line and really think about making it stronger.

There is a prologue to my book that is quirky and catchy, but when you got to chapter 1 I found that the first paragraph lost some of the fire. It didn’t grab me and make me want to keep reading.

So, I thought about it, and I thought about my protagonist and what was going on and how she’d be feeling, and I made a change. Check out the two variations and let me know what you think:

Original paragraph 1:

"There’s nothing better than autumn in New York. Parents hurrying their less-than-enthusiastic children around to gather school supplies in stores with jam-packed displays of number-two pencils, rulers, erasers, and spiral notebooks. The air turning crisp, concerts at Carnegie Hall, snuggling into the first over-sized wool sweater of the season. Hordes of fashionistas attending the most fabulous shows at Bryant Park. Depleted runners on every corner, beginning or ending their daily run in preparation for the New York City Marathon. And most importantly, the burnt-colored leaves decorating every store window—I think to remind us city-dwellers of the perfectly harmonic leaves that grace every maple, elm, and oak tree outside of the city. As I stand in Borders Books and Music at 10 Columbus Circle in Manhattan, in front of a room of smiling, expectant faces, I can’t help but gaze out the window at my enchanting city. With the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows and warming the side of my face, all I can think is that I’m glad to be back in the Big Apple, the last stop on my twenty-one-city book tour."

Updated paragraph 1:

"Shit, shit, fuck....after twenty of these you’d think I’d have it together, dispelling the need to spew cuss words in my head like an involuntary Turret’s tic (I don’t normally swear), but I’m STILL a nervous wreck every time. “Just read the words on the page,” I chant under my breath trying to assuage my mounting hysteria and looking grimly at the melange of people filing in. Man, I hate being the center of attention. And let me clear something up right now…this is not me being a pretentious, ungrateful, woe-is-me writer, complaining about speaking in front of a room of faithful fans. This is me, the fourteen-year-old with braces and headgear who threw up while reading my essay at my middle school’s annual essay competition. And trust me, headgear and a teal and black polka dot dress that my grandma handpicked just for the occasion, both dripping with vomit, does not a good look make. Standing in Borders Books and Music at 10 Columbus Circle in front of a room of smiling, expectant faces, I gaze out the window at my enchanting city flush with October. As it always does, the thrum of activity here has a strange calming effect on me. I turn my head back to the crowd. With the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the windows and warming the side of my face, suddenly all I can think is that I’m glad to be back in the Big Apple, the last stop on my twenty-one-city book tour."

Better? I think it is. Does option 2 make you want to keep reading a bit more than option 1? I sure do hope it does. Is this process exhausting? God yes. But do I want it more than anything else, and will I continue to work it until it’s right? Absolutely!!!!!


Mike and I leave in two weeks for vacation and I really can’t wait. Neither of us has ever been to Bermuda so we’re excited to explore the island. Yesterday we agreed that every year we’re going to pick a destination we’ve never been and go even once we have a baby, and I’m happy to say we’ve agreed that next year is PARIS!!!!! Talk about excited.

My life really is good. If you take away the house, the cars, and all the things, I still have my animals and Mike, my bff, my husband, and the person that gets me more than anyone else. And I can’t explain how nice it is to be in a relationship with someone who sees me for who I am, and what I am, and just loves it.

Yesterday evening when I was feeling a little blue and discouraged, Mike suggested we start renovating my “writing” room before we do any other room in the house. He told me to think about how I want it, and that he will make sure the room gets finished so that I have that creative place to work.

That’s love.

Two More Rejections and a Birthday Cake Shake- August 20, 2010

After reading this entry’s title, need I really say more?

Last night was not only a step closer to me getting an agent (every no leads you to a yes), but a pound or two closer to me joining Weight Watchers. Man, I really shouldn’t have had that shake.

Yesterday evening played out like most. I went home, let the dogs out, replenished their water and fed them their wet food (have you seen the dog food Beneful? It seriously looks like turkey, chicken, and beef stew. Mike jokes that if we’re ever poor we’ll just eat that because it looks tasty. Yeah right. We won’t be eating Beneful, we’ll be selling that Camaro. Just kidding. I’ll never make Mikey sell his girl). Anyway, so then I cleaned out the dishwasher, packed lunches, swept the floors, and cleaned out the litter boxes (my animals keep me very humble). After all the chores were said and done, Mike pulled up. It’s amazing how he manages to get home just as everything is done. I’m so onto him.

Mike came in and after a little nudging, decided he’d cut the grass. I did a little more cleaning, watched the last 15 minutes of Good Times (I absolutely love those old shows), took a call from my buddy, Mike (he was away in Montreal on vacay for two weeks so we had catching up to do), and read and responded to an email from T (she read yesterday’s blog and agreed that she wants us to be close again. I’m very happy about that). Then I had planned on reading some more of the Stephen King book when I spotted the tiny magenta light flashing on my cell phone out of the corner of my eye, and I knew what it was.

My cell phone will flash a green light when I have a text message, but a purple light when I have an email from my Yahoo account. I only use this Yahoo account for sending out submissions, so when I see that purple light, I know it’s a response from an agent. With trepidation I reached over and grabbed the phone, pulled up that account, and read the email. This one read:

Hi Tisha,

Thank you for your submission to the Blank Agency. Though interesting, it unfortunately isn't right for us at this time.

Please note that our selections are based on a variety of factors including personal taste, category, trend and market forecast. Therefore, I encourage you to continue to seek representation with other agents, who may have a different opinion of your project.

Thank you for your your submission and best of luck to you in your pursuits.

Though this response is much kinder than the other one’s I’ve gotten, don’t you think if you’re going to reject me while sitting on your literary high horse, perhaps you should use spell check before sending out a rejection email?

(Thank you for your your submission and best of luck to you in your pursuits)

I don’t know, it’s just a thought…

Anyway, after reading this I didn’t feel good, but I didn’t feel like milkshakes and fries. Mike finished cutting grass, I grilled him some steak and finished cooking the rest of his dinner, we chatted over The Real Housewives of Jersey, and then Mike decided he was going to hit the gym even though it was already 8:30 PM. I glanced over at my phone, and that merciless magenta light started flashing its ugly little head again, and although my chances of it being favorable were 50/50, the gnawing pain in the pit of my stomach told me before I looked that it wasn’t good. Sure enough it was ANOTHER REJECTION. While the first negative response didn’t throw me into a carb-filled binge fest, this second one sure had the potential to.

Mike left for the gym but not before assuring me that I’d get an agent and that these idiots will all be sorry for rejecting me (his words not mine. I swear). I paced around my house wallowing in my misery before jumping in the shower, putting on my jammies, and cozying up in bed to check out this week’s episode of The DC Housewives (don’t judge). I quickly found myself bored to death with that, so I grabbed the container filled with my extensive collection of O.P.I nail lacquers and painted my nails. As my nails were drying, my phone rang and it was Mike. I answered the phone and barely mumbled a hello, as if my voice had left with my self-confidence hours before. Mike asked me what flavor shake I wanted and I told him I didn’t want one. He then told me that he was at Bruster’s and that he was getting me a shake. My mood instantaneously lifted as I asked him if they had Birthday Cake, the one I thought I wouldn’t like but did. He perused the menu before confirming they did. I was excited.

Mike came home with my shake and as I heard the front door open and close my mouth started to water. He hurriedly walked up the steps, extended his sympathetic, shake-filled hand to me and I grabbed it much like a crazed mugger in the subway. How sad. But after a sip or two I was completely disgusted with myself and I didn’t want it. I rationalized that I might be a rejected unknown, but becoming a rejected, unknown porker might make me feel, um, worse, so enough with feeding my chubby little face.

Long story short, Mike showered and we went to bed but I didn’t sleep well. I kept waking up in the middle of the night and thinking and thinking about my submissions. What did I do wrong? What can I change?

I woke up this morning feeling blah. I didn’t want to think about my submissions, or writing at all for that matter. I went to work, and while sitting at my desk looking at the post-it notes I’ve been writing every day that say, “I will get an agent,” I felt downright defeated. Mike text messaged me about an hour into work to ask me if I’d be writing a blog entry today to which I quickly responded, “NO!” And without any urging at all, because he knows me so well, he simply replied back, “Oh.”

My friend Mike came up to my office to chat and give me the “don’t be upset, it will happen, I know it will” pep talk to which I just stared at him blankly.

Then my friend Chris, text messaged me and it said:

“Your note on your frig says it all!!!! Keep positive. You’re a fab writer. I know you’ll get an agent. Just be patient. Good things come to those who wait.”

And then I started to think. This is only the beginning. I still have forty-some submissions to send out, and the no’s always come before the yeses, so why am I taking this all to heart? I have read numerous accounts of authors—Emily Giffin, Jennifer Weiner, Nicholas Sparks, just to name a few—who were rejected a lot of times before success, but they didn’t give up. Michael Jordon was told he couldn’t play on the varsity team because he wasn’t good enough. Jennifer Hudson lost American Idol only then to go off and win an Oscar (even though I’m completely against singers acting and I think her winning an Oscar is ridiculous, it’s an example that proves my point), and Tiger Woods, while lacking a conscience and morality, is an exemplary golf player because when everyone else was chillin, he was practicing. So there’s no time to cry, to feel sorry for myself, or to mope around, and certainly no time to keep sucking down those Birthday Cake shakes.

I wrote this blog, I’m going to revisit my submission packets to see if there’s anything I might need to change, I’m going to get up tomorrow and put together the twenty-eight packets I’m sending out, and I’m going to keep it moving.

Because life isn’t about all the yeses you get, it’s about what you do when you get the no’s.

Sunday I’m going to my very first muscle car show with Mike. Monday’s entry should be a hoot!

My BFT (Best Friend Then)- August 18, 2010

Okay so, I got another rejection email last night, but I’m not going to sit here and whine about it. I did enough of that last night. Poor Mike. Besides, I have come to the conclusion that getting rejections is just par for the course. It means I’m out there, and in the mix. Plus all of the greats have been rejected, and I mean rejected a lot. I’m reading Stephen King’s book, On Writing, and he talks about all the rejections he got before getting published. It was brutal. But he NEVER GAVE UP!!! So, I’ve brushed myself off, and have resigned to get the rest of my submissions done this month and continue to write my blog (which I know you all enjoy immensely…I hope), and then starting in September, I’m going to start writing Meet Me In Philadelphia, my second novel. Sounds like a plan, right? Well, that’s until I get another rejection and beg Mike to order pizza and fries from my favorite greasy spoon. Yummmmmy, but not for my tummy. Milkshakes one night, pizza and fries the next; this writing thing is going to turn me into a complete fatso.

Okay, on to what I really want to talk about. So, yesterday evening I was on the phone talking to an old friend turned new friend, and it felt great, just like orchestra seats to a Broadway play great. And after we hung up from our hour-plus conversation, a part of me was wishing we hadn’t. I found myself walking around my house wishing she lived next door, and that we could chat over tea, our kids could play together (I know I don’t have any kids but it was a nice thought), we could go shopping together like we used to, eat chocolate covered pretzels together like we used to, tell each other everything, see each other every day. But the truth is, I haven’t laid eyes on her in more than twelve years, and I don’t even know when I ever will.

My BFT, let’s just call her T, and I met when we were in our early twenties. And I don’t know about her, but I liked her instantly. She was in a relationship with a guy I went to grade school with and they had a baby. I was in college, living at home with my parents, naïve to the world, and completely enthralled with her. At the time I was a supervisor at a big chain store, and she was looking for a job, so I hired her. We were inseparable. She was the very first friend I think I had that even though we grew up differently, and our lives were poles apart, we were the same. We both just wanted to be loved, cared for, and understood. I shared things with T that I didn’t share with anyone else. We would work together all day, and then go home and call each other and talk for hours as though we hadn’t. I loved her, deep down in my soul loved her, but then there was a misunderstanding, a fight, and everything I had with T was gone.

I’m not going to get into the specifics of our spat but I will say that we talked about it recently and it was all one big misunderstanding. Sadly, had we talked about it then maybe we’d still be BFF’s, but we were young and dumb, and that’s just the way it went.

At any rate, a few months ago T friend-requested me on Facebook and I was thrilled. I had looked for her on there many times, but I had heard she got married and I didn’t know her last name. Luckily we have a mutual FB friend, and T saw me on that person’s profile, extended an olive branch my way, and without hesitation I grabbed it. We FB’d each other, which led to emailing each other, which has led to a couple of extended phone calls, but we have yet to get together. She still lives in Maryland, which is two hours away from where I live, and with life, work, kids, writing, and everything else, we haven’t been able to hook up. But after my conversation with my old friend, I not only feel the urge to hook up, I have a burning desire for her to be that friend to me once again.

I don’t know what it is about T that makes our conversations feel like an old blankey, calming, comforting, and just right, but they always do. It’s like not a day has gone by, like we’re the same two young girls that just get each other. We talk about anything, and I find myself sharing with her my real, life-changing hopes and dreams, things I don’t tend to share with just anyone. Why would that be? Even with the distance, strain, and time, do some loves and friendships endure and stay the same?

I don’t have many friends—lots of acquaintances, yes. But true, call you in the middle of the night because you can’t sleep friends, no. But I’ve always longed for that. Even as a kid, I always had friends who had other BFFs. I was never that person. But for the time that T and I were friends, I really felt like I was her person. Maybe that’s why I still long for her, because I think she was the very first person that chose ME. Jeez, this writing thing has made me not only a fatty but a sentimental sap. Please forgive me.

I guess I just needed to get this off of my chest. I don’t know what the future holds for me and T; I wish I did. And even though this may sound silly and borderline weird, I’m hopeful that she longs for my friendship as much as I do, and we can become close again.

And maybe, just maybe, she was never my BFT (best friend then) but in some way, my BFF (best friend forever) all along.

So back to my list I go, following number 6 (spend more time getting to really know my true friends), number 30 (work to fix any strained relationships I have), and number 33 (be a better friend).

If you have a friend that you love, tell them.

This, That, and Everything- August 17, 2010

So yesterday I got my first rejection from my new and improved query letter, and I wanted to cry. And I mean really weep. All I could think was, one down, how many more to go? And why weren’t they interested? It’s a gosh-darn good letter.

In the rejection email, they thanked me for submitting, but said unfortunately they weren’t enthusiastic about my project. Real nice, huh? What’s wrong with saying, thanks for submitting but this isn’t right for us, we’re not taking on new clients, or thank you, but no thank you, for that matter? But, we’re not enthusiastic about your project? Talk about kicking a man when he’s down. Douche bags!

Anyway, I brushed it off, sending out twenty-three more email submissions yesterday, and I have twenty-eight prepped mail submissions ready to send out on Saturday. They may not be jumping at the chance to represent little ole me, but someone will, and I’m going to keep on submitting until I find them.

Yesterday afternoon I had lunch with Renee and we had a blast. We both got Subway Veggie Delights and Five Guys fries. It felt like old times. We talked about this, that, and everything, laughing pretty much the whole time. Renee is my old faithful. I can always depend on her to make me smile.

Last night after the gym I begged Mike to take me to get a milkshake, and surprisingly he did, but not before making me feel like a complete fatty, asking questions like: are you sure you want to get ice cream after working out, didn’t you just have ice cream the other day, you think it’s a good idea to get ice cream? And to all of those ridiculous questions, I answered with an affirming, YES. So off to Bruster’s we went.

Now, every time we go to Bruster’s the same thing occurs: I stare at the menu for like, forever, before the kid behind the sliding glass window pops their head out to ask if they can help me. I quickly spout off my order, and then as they’re closing the sliding glass window, I look over at Mike and the conversation goes like this:

Me: Man, I should have gotten something else.

Mike: (Sigh) You do that every time.

Me: I know but I don’t like to keep them waiting.

Mike: That’s ridiculous.

Me: I wonder what the peanut butter cream taste like.

Mike: You should have asked for a taste.

Me: Nah.

Mike: (Shaking his head)

Me: I should have gotten the waffle cone instead of the shake.

Mike: You’re not getting both.

Me: (glaring over at Mike) I know I’m not. (The last time we went to Bruster’s I ordered a strawberry shake and a chocolate shake, because I couldn’t decide which one I really wanted. But then I didn’t want the chocolate shake after I drank the strawberry one. Mike ended up drinking it, and told me never again was I to get two orders…ha ha)

The girl who took our order opens the window and hands Mike his waffle cone filled with lemon sorbet. I eye up the cone but not the sorbet. Lemon sorbet, yuck!

Me: The birthday cake shake should be good, right? It will probably taste like the cake batter ice cream from Marble Slab, don’t you think? (Marble Slab was our trusty ice cream parlor in Delaware. We would go there every weekend. Boy, those were the good ole days!)

Mike: Did I tell you I saw the owners of Marble Slab at Wawa?

Me: No, you did?

Mike: Yeah and they’re opening a Maggie Moo’s in Exton.

Me: Yum, Maggie Moo’s. (I’m a complete ice cream snob) Is Exton close to us?

Mike: Yeah not too far.

Me: Yaaay. We’ll have to go.

Mike: (smiling) Of course, dear.

The window opens and the girl hands me my shake. I look at the top and can see blue. Hmmm, I think. Why is it blue? I pay her and then walk away.

Me: I don’t think I’m going to like this.

Mike: (giving me a look) You haven’t even tasted it.

Me: (taking a sip) There are sprinkles in this. Ick. This isn’t what I wanted. Taste it. (I shove the straw practically into his mouth.

Mike: (giving me another look before taking a swig) Mmmm, I like it. It’s really good.

Me: You do?

Mike: Yeah.

Me: But it has all of those sprinkles in it.

Mike: You love rainbow sprinkles, and they’re not clogging up your straw.

Me: (I take another sip) What do you think it tastes like?

Mike: (taking another taste) A vanilla cupcake.

Me: Really? (I take another taste) Hmm, maybe it does. Want some more?

Mike: No, honey. It will give me the poops. (He’s lactose intolerant)

Me: (chuckling) You’ll end up drinking the rest. Just watch.

Mike: No I won’t. (as he takes the last bite of his waffle cone—he’s such a little piggy)

By this time we pull up to our house and I hand him the shake, which he willingly takes, happily sucking the rest down. He’s so predictable. (He runs into the house and pops an Acidophilus to prevent the poops...ha,ha. My husband...)

Anyway, so as we’re walking into the house Mike says that he’s going to go out to the garage and look at his car. Mind you, it’s quarter of 9:00 PM, dark, and he hasn’t eaten his dinner (not that this part matters; we already had ice cream). But sure enough, I look out the sliding glass doors in the kitchen and there he is, staring at it admiringly. He had slid half of the car cover off so the rear was showing, and he was just staring at it, as if marveling over a piece of fine art at the Louvre. And I stood there watching him, thinking that I don’t think he’s ever looked at me quite that way.

Mike came inside, I fixed him dinner, and we chatted for a moment before I ran up to shower. I stepped into the shower, the blistering water beating down on me, and all I could think was, I had an agent who wasn’t enthusiastic about my work, a husband that’s overly enthusiastic about his car, and I was anything but enthusiastic about my ice cream that I was sure would make me forget the day’s worries. I stood there with my eyes closed, and the water spraying down on me, hoping tomorrow would be better.

The rest of the evening was pretty uneventful. I sent off a few more submissions; Mike showered. We let the dogs out for the last time, and armed the alarm. Mike schooled me about what happens at the muscle car shows. He’s totally obsessed at this point. By this time we were lying in bed about to turn out the lights and get some shut eye when I murmured something like, “I really hope I get an agent.” And Mike looked over at me, and said something like, “You will get an agent, honey. And that agent that rejected you will be sorry because you’re going to be a big star.” Then he reached over and turned off the light, and I nuzzled up to my favorite pillow, trying to find my nook in the bed thinking, today’s not so bad after all.

Oh, and I could tell by the way he looked at me that the Camero is no threat. I’m definitely his number one girl.

Goodnight.

Be Happy, Positive, Grateful, and Optimistic…I Will Get An Agent!- August 16, 2010

Happy Monday!

So this weekend was emotionally taxing to say the least. On Friday we had Mike’s grandma’s funeral, and then Saturday was Darren’s. And even though we ended up not making it to Darren’s, it weighed heavy on both of our minds, nonetheless.

By late Saturday afternoon, I found myself lying on my bed finishing Mennonite In A Little Black Dress by Rhoda Janzen. I had started the book a few weeks ago, but with everything going on, I had a hard time finding the time to finish it. However, after cleaning the house, doing laundry, and waiting for Mike to come in and shower so we could go to dinner, it was either watch Pauly D and The Situation reruns for like the fifth time, or curl up with my blankey and a book. And since I was fist-pumped, MVP’d, and grenaded out, I chose the latter, allowing me to go back to my list (Number 4—Read more; write every day).

For those of you who have not read the book, it’s a memoir about a woman whose husband leaves her for a guy he meets on Gay.com, and her choice to go back home to spend time with her Mennonite family. If you’re jumping up and racing to the bookstore to get all the juicy details of her husband rolling out for a dude, let me stop you right now. Though that’s a part of her story, it’s a very minute part of it. What Rhoda does splendidly is give us a sneak peek into a religion and culture I know I wasn’t hip to. She shares fascinating, and often times hilarious, childhood memories, Mennonite beliefs, stories of her rebellion against the religion and all that it represents, and then offers up this underlying hope that in the face of adversity there is good, and even when something may not be right for us, we can still learn from it. And on Saturday after another week of bad news, that ray of hope and optimism really hit the spot.

I finished the book feeling slightly renewed. I got up, went into my writing room, found an index card, and wrote on it: “Be happy, be positive, grateful, and optimistic. I will get an agent.” And then I walked into the bathroom and stuck it on the mirror. I looked at it for a moment, feeling strongly that if I wrote it, read it, and said it out loud, I would believe it. So that’s exactly what I did. I stood in my bathroom reading it out loud over and over again, as if chanting a well-known ancient proverb. As I opened the bathroom door, walked out, and looked down at Hershe (my doggie) who was lying there waiting on me to exit, I smiled, because I know in my heart I do believe. I really do.

Last week I responded to Lauren’s email (New York Times bestselling author Lauren) thanking her for taking the time to respond to me, and then asking her if she really thought I needed to add a sentence about myself to my query letter since I don’t have any prior writing credit. I told her that I’ve done a lot of research and from everything that I’ve read, I determined the literary golden rule is, if you have nothing substantial to say (aka: writing credit, a degree from Yale or Harvard, a law degree, or a secret handshake), say nothing at all.

Lauren wrote back agreeing with me. She confirmed that if I have no writing credit not to say anything, but that she forgot I had no writing credit due to the proficiency of my query letter. And no I’m not paying her to say these things to me…

I realized a couple of things last week about this process and about myself. One is that I never settled with my query letter. I have reworked it, and reworked it, and reworked it. And even though I had a very tight schedule mapped out for my summer regarding submissions, getting an agent, and starting my new book, I put that all aside and focused on getting this letter right. I cut out sentences I loved. I cut out whole paragraphs for that matter. I sent it out to a handful of people to critique, and waited patiently for them to get back with me, and I don’t do patience very well. I sat on it. I took time to think about if it was the best it could be, and then went back to it and worked it again. I put myself out there, emailing an author, not sure she would even give me the time of day. And I waited some more. But through all of this I realized I believed in me. I am a writer, and I wrote a story that’s relatable, funny, touching, and good. It’s really good. And there’s an agent out there who will think so too.

Last night before bed while Mike was in the bathroom brushing his pearly whites, I enthusiastically handed him a blank index card and told him to start it like I had started mine, but then to add whatever he wanted to the end. So he finished brushing, spit, rinsed his mouth out, grabbed the Sharpie and wrote, “Be happy, be positive, grateful, and optimistic. I will get to the gym every day.” As he was writing I was staring at his face and could see the glimmer of not only excitement, but confidence in his eyes. He put the top back on the Sharpie, I took the card and placed it at the top of the bathroom mirror. And we both stood there looking at our hopes and desires staring back at us in the mirror. And then we looked over at each other and smiled.

We can do anything we want to do, and we will… one index card at a time.

Believe.

Go On With Your Bad Self- August 12, 2010

The last few days have been pretty brutal. No let me rephrase that, the last month has been a nightmare. On Tuesday morning Mike’s grandmother passed away, and on Wednesday morning our friend Darren died. I know you’re thinking the same thing I’m thinking─ what in the heck is going on?

Yesterday afternoon I was talking to a co-worker of mine, and telling her about the reoccurrence of deaths in my life over the past few weeks and she said very pointedly, “Well just think, you only have one more to go.” I asked her what she meant and she said, “There were three deaths a couple of weeks ago, and now there are two this week. Things always happen in threes.” I literally got a chill, and my emotions teetered between dread and anger. How dare she imply that something else bad is going to happen? What gall, I thought. But within ten minutes of her leaving my desk, my cell phone rang, and it was my sister calling to tell me Wesley, a family friend, had passed away. I sat in my chair, mouth open, in utter disbelief. But almost instantaneously I felt…(I know this is going to sound really horrible, but until you’ve been in my shoes, don’t judge)…relieved. Wesley was my third, which meant Mike and I are free and clear for now. My thinking sounds a bit twisted, huh? Don’t worry, I’m calling my therapist this morning.

Anyway, by the time I got my sister’s phone call I was spent. I don’t think I would’ve been able to handle another bit of bad news. I sat at my desk trying to figure out what it all meant, if it meant anything at all. Why is all of this bad happening? Is it coincidental? I thought about how in my twenties I didn’t really experience death much at all, but now in my thirties I can’t seem to escape it. Then the reality set in that as I get older so do my parents, and everyone else, and I started to feel really, really sad.

But hold on, there is a happy ending to this entry…

I’m pretty sure I told you all that on Monday I sent out four more agent submissions for my manuscript. Well, the four I sent were email submissions so I’ve been checking my email periodically to see if I have any responses. As of today, I’ve received not a one! But when I sent out my first round of email submissions with my less-than-brilliant query letter back in June, I got back big fat NO’s pretty quickly, so I’m thinking it could be a good sign that I have yet to hear back. Anyhoo, yesterday around 4:20 pm, I decided to check my email before packing up for the day, and there was a message in my inbox. While it wasn’t from an agent saying send me your manuscript, it was good—really good—nonetheless.

The email was from New York Times bestselling author Lauren Oliver. Let me give you a little backstory…

At the end of June I sent out nine agent submissions. Out of the nine, I got five back pretty quickly saying, NO! But in all honesty I wasn’t that surprised. I wasn’t super excited about my query letter, and for all nine of those submissions that’s all they required. They didn’t want a synopsis, sample chapter, anything. Just a query letter and mine wasn’t brilliant; I’m not even gonna lie. So I put everything on hold (and being the follow-the-schedule, meet-all-deadlines person that I am, it was tough) and decided I was going to reconstruct my query letter. I did research, lots of it. I drafted up a new letter, requested that my friends read it and give me feedback, started over again, requested that my friends read it again and give me feedback. Cried. Fretted. Bugged my editor, Bobbi, and my friend, Mike, repeatedly because I didn’t like this or I didn’t like that and needed their suggestions. And then I decided for some reason that I was going to email an author whose style I respected and liked to see if she’d be willing to read my query letter and give me feedback. So that’s exactly what I did.

I found Lauren’s email address on her website and I sent her a pleading email asking if she’d consider simply reading my query letter and telling me if it’s complete garbage. I sent the email in the middle of July and waited. But then all of this bad juju started happening, and with every day that I didn’t hear a response, I figured I wouldn’t. So this past Saturday I put nine more submissions together with my new and improved query letter, feeling confident that it was good this time. Four of the nine were email submissions I sent out on Monday, and the other five are mail submissions I’m going to hold off sending until I edit my letter. Okay, I’m rambling…

Anyway, so Tuesday I finally got a response from Lauren congratulating me on finishing my manuscript, and then saying that her summer is very hectic, but that I could send over my letter and she’d take a look. In the midst of my despair there was a ray of light. I sent Lauren my query letter right away but thinking that, “my summer is very hectic” translates to, don’t expect this anytime soon. To my pleasant surprise, I was wrong!

Here is Lauren’s response to me:

Hey Tisha--

It looks awesome! I can tell you're a great writer just from the letter. I've made some minor adjustments as track changes and am reattaching here; feel free to accept or disregard my edits.

Also, it's typical in queries to have at least a one-line about yourself...?

Lastly, MAKE SURE that you personalize the queries to each agent, and TRIPLE CHECK that you spell names correctly.

Good luck!! Hope this helps.

Best,
Lauren

“I can tell you’re a great writer just from your letter.” Did you read that part? Did you see how she said she can tell how great of a writer I am just by reading my new and improved query letter? Ha, ha. You should have seen the smile lining my face. If Lauren, a New York Times bestselling author, thinks it’s good, shouldn’t an agent? You bet your tooshy one will. I'm such a dork!

Before ending this entry I have to give credit where it’s due. So here’s a shout-out to my friend and editor Bobbi who helped me keep the letter to one page, telling me repeatedly that it’s a lot harder to write less than more. And she’s not lying. My friend Mike who spends countless hours talking me off the ledge, and offering up useful suggestions. And my friend Annie, who read the query letter, met me for lunch one Saturday to talk about the query letter, and then after reading the final version gave me a boost of encouragement by saying I nailed it. I’m thankful to each of you for not only your invaluable contributions but for your belief in me and my work.

So there you have it. I’m grateful for another day of life, I have some helpful suggestions from a New York Times bestselling author to improve my query letter, I haven’t gotten a call, text, or email that someone I know or love is injured or dead, and I have an optimistic feeling that before I know it, an agent will be requesting my manuscript. So in the words of Ice Cube, “Today is a good day.”