Rules were meant to be broken

I like to think of myself as a rule follower. Don't laugh. I really do. I guess I should re-phrase. I like to follow the rules when I feel they are fair and appropriate. Otherwise, I toss the rules out the window as far as I can and make my own. Of course, the way I see it, most rules are ridiculous and therefore meant to be broken. So why not make my own rules in the first place? That's a fine solution, indeed.

I am contemplating rules today as it seems these pesky, thorny things are constantly getting in my way on the path to publication. And I must continually find a way to either a) get around them or b) just ignore them as if they didn't exist. A lot of the time I choose answer b as I find mostly it's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. (I got that bit of sage wisdom from my adoring Mother.)

Today's irksome rule has to do with agents and multiple submissions. Here's the first rule as I see it: First-time writers of fiction length work either a) find a small publishing house interested in your work (which I did with book number one) or b) find an agent to schlep your work all over creation to get it published with a bigger house.

Now, I have been a diligent submitter the last few years, writing perky letters and sending partial manuscripts to potential agents. I've done my homework. There have been a few nibbles, but no all out bites for my fiction written wares.

This leads me to the next rule on multiple submissions. This is a no no to many agents. Many would like what they call 'exclusive' submissions and be given time to look over the work and make a fair decision. Okay, I get that. So, like the good girl that I am I have waited (somewhat) patiently up to eight weeks for ONE agent to tell me whether or not he/she even wants to see more than the query, synopsis and 10-30 pages I have sent.

I've done this 'one at a time' thing for more years than I can count. Let me put it this way, I've been chatting up agents since my teenager was a toddler. That's a lot of wasted time (or shall I say contemplative time?) But, as I said, I am a rule follower and I want to do the right thing.

Lately, though, the answer c keeps popping up in my head. You know, NONE OF THE ABOVE. Maybe I don't want a small publisher. Maybe I don't need an agent (shhhhh, my perfect one might be listening). Maybe I can do this thing called publishing all by myself with no rules or regs.

My wonderfully supportive spouse sent me an article from the Wall Street Journal recently which discussed such a thing. Rule breakers from all over the country are flocking to places like amazon.com to upload their stories for all to read. Gadgets like the Kindle and the iPad are making it possible to bypass publishers and agents all together.

So, what is a rule follower to do? Do I continue on my present path to publication? No. I think it's time for some soul searching and good old fashioned research. I'm gonna get my work out there one way or another - even if it is one download at a time.

Hard to just believe

I started this blog as a way to publish my weekly musings and then the nasty critic in my head stopped me mid sentence. That bratty little voice (which sounds like my very first real life editor) told me I was somehow being ego maniacal thinking that throngs of readers would flock to my musings. (She's a real meanie, that Naysayer in my mind).

But that's not what this is about. That's not the point of writing this blog. What I was/am trying to do is somehow put into words how I feel each and every day - as a writer, a homeschooling mom and struggling yogini. I have a lot of questions about life in general as I am sure everyone else around me does. WHY, WHY, WHY, has always been the essence of my questioning soul. It's just easier to toss the words out there into the cyber universe, rather than having them roll around in my head like some sort of lucky dice waiting to be rolled in my game of life.

This morning's cup-o-joe lead me back to my Beached Mermaid blog. Actually, it was reading an email called "The Daily OM." It's an inspirational message that usually brings a smile to my face, or at least an understanding nod. Today's focused on the fact that we can manifest whatever it is we want in life. The key is to believe we already have everything we need, not wanting desperately something that we have convinced ourselves is somehow unattainable. In other words, just believing that everything is ok can make it so.

Now, blind faith has never been my strong suit. I'm a "seeing is believing" kind of girl most of the time, despite my usual sunny disposition. But as I ponder this thought it seems spot on. Every time I feel desperate about something, such as "Why can't an editor pick up my work and want to publish it?" I realize I am putting a negative spin on the things that are the most important to me. I need to believe that the perfect editor and agent are out there. And when it's time they will jump for joy that they found me. Same thing goes for my yoga. I keep tossing negatives out there like, "I will never be able to afford additional yoga teacher training. It's just too expensive." Of course, with that frame of mind why would the universe provide me with anything else?

My job is to keep believing all the good that's possible even on the days that it seems too remote to do so. It's a simple word, yet so hard to execute. BELIEVE and it will happen. Maybe not today, but with some hard work and positive vibes it will when it's meant to.

Take that, you nasty Naysayer critic in my head!

The end is only the beginning

I'm better at hello. It's the goodbyes that lodge like a piece of moussaka (as in Disney's Hercules) in my throat leaving me voiceless. Or worse yet, teary-eyed as well as tongue tied.

Oh, those beginnings. They are but a dream. A time of joy and excitement when nearly anything is possible. And then, the bottom falls out and it is no longer the blossoming beginning, but somewhere in the murky middle sucking the life out of me with every wheezing breath taken.

I am speaking of writing, yet it is quite fitting for many facets of my life. Endings have always been difficult. But aren't they for everyone? Anyone who knows me can see a pattern here, though. Instead of goodbye, I've been known to walk away without a word, mute and unable to cope, rather than experience the pain and torture that go into actually letting go. Which leads me to my current status - ending a relationship with my latest manuscript.

How many unfinished masterpieces do I have in a drawer which have the first 50-100 pages done? So bright and full of life. The characters seem to leap off the page. Oh how I love them. They are strong and virile and beautiful and unique. They are the loves of my life. All of them. But that's before the saggy, flawed, angry, middle rears its head. The part that doesn't even seem to have any heart, much less soul. This is the scary part. The part that separates the short timers from the distance runners.

I read an essay the other day from Amy Tan called 'Angst and the Second Book' in which she said she started six books after the success of The Joy Luck Club. Nearly 1,000 pages churned out and tossed all because she was worried how people would react to her SECOND book. Now, I do not have a bestseller I am trying to say goodbye to, but I am trying to improve my craft with this next endeavor. So I enter into each day over analyzing each word that's placed on the page. Yet, somehow I'm plowing through, slowly but surely.

So, here I am with the words THE END looming yet I can't seem to take the leap and just be done with it. There's tweaking that still needs to be done. There's the life that I still need to breathe into my main character.

Walking away is never easy. Just one more draft and it might be the perfect piece of literary genius. HA!

Goodbyes are certainly not my forte. But to move on, I must...

What goes around comes around

What goes around comes around. This is and always has been my Mother's mantra. Actually, even at this moment I hear her voice in my head saying these five words. Only she's laughing this time, gleeful that I am finally dealing with what she had to decades ago during my youth.

What goes around comes around. It was a phrase my Mom used particularly when my sister and I were being difficult teenagers. At the time I thought she meant it as some sort of hopeful prayer to keep her sanity. Now I know it was more of a hex, one that would someday stick.

I do not deny I was periodically problematic during those awkward teen years. Not verbally defiant (that was my sister's department). Mine came in the form of being the Queen of NO. Not coming out and actually saying I hated something, but not willing to try it or give reasons why. And I admit shopping excursions were a mite tense. Especially those involving the purchase of specific types of under garments. Ok, bra shopping.

But you have to understand, that was a long time ago. I didn't like the colors that were offered. Some were too tight, too loose, too constricting, too whatever. It was frustrating for me. But I wasn't to blame. Really. Still, it got to the point where neither my sister nor my mother would shop with me, deeming me "difficult."

I never saw it that way, though. Discerning. That's it. I have discerning tastes. But, I have found, rarely do we see those 'special' traits that annoy our beloved familia. That is, until our own children toss it back in our faces and it's hard to miss. When our own children act as a mirror image to our youth.

What goes around comes around. And here we arrive in the present day and I offer up a slice of department store discussion (or lack there of) with my son:

Me: "You said you needed a few new golf shirts. Is that right?"

Teenage son: "Yuh huh."

Me: "What color would you like? There's a ton here."

Teenage son: "I dunno."

Me: "How about this?" I hold up a striped shirt.

Teenage son: "No."

Me: "Ok. How about this one? It would look nice with your eyes."

Teenage son: "Uh, no."

Me: "Ooooh. How about this one? It's really soft and..."

Teenage son: No comment, just a pursing of the lips and shaking of the head.

Me (getting really angry): "How about I just buy three white ones and call it done?"

Teenage son: "Can we do that?"

Me: "No! Can't you just tell me what you want? What you like?"

Teenage son: "I dunno."

What goes around comes around. And so goes the vicious cycle that has become shopping with my own beloved child. It's painful. Poking your eyes out painful. Still, I hopped back on that roller coaster ride of non-committal again because we had to buy a nice pair of slacks and shirt for the First Communion of a family friend.

I prepared for the worst. Ready for the 'no' train. But this time he was a different person. My teenager listened to the salesman and smiled when he offered ideas. The child of my loins pointed to which shirts he liked with which pants. He even trotted to the dressing room without snarling one little bit.

I think my chin almost hit the ground in surprise. Who was this kid and what did he do with my "I dunno" guy?

Then I realized. What goes around comes around. That's it! He coming around! Or is it going around? Damn. I think I'll just call and ask my mom.

Taking a stand

Taking a stand has never been easy for me. I admit it. I am wishy washy by nature. One of my Mother's nicknames for me is even "the peace maker." Not always the case, mind you. More logically I'd call it the case of the proverbial fence sitter. I believe that's why I ended up becoming a newspaper journalist (that and being paid to write). I could stay neutral (like Switzerland) and watch all the fireworks explode around me. And then I got to write a great, juicy story about it.

But the last few months it seems that world and local issues are starting to irk me. Like an itchy, awful rash that won't go away. A rash of issues I would've written stories about if I were still in a newsroom.

My heart is aching as workers are dead and 42,000 gallons of oil are leaking daily from an oil rig that caught fire and sank off the coast of Louisiana. It is the state where my beloved child was born and still holds a sacred space in my heart. And the thought that coastlines and waterways from LA to FLA and beyond will be affected by irreparable damage just pours salt into the wound.

And then there are the recent rumblings and rantings I've endured of those preaching the gospel of hate - toward soldiers, gays and anyone else who's not of 'right' mind. It's all like a freight train running wild through my head. Where do I place my allegiance? Where will I draw the line?

All I know is I need to make a difference. That's what I have been truly missing. I was under the illusion for 15 years that I was making a difference just by being a watch dog for the media. Maybe all it was was a farce, a smoke screen of caring. Or, maybe it was part of my path that has led me to this moment. A moment when I know it's time to draw a line in the sand and take a stand.

Duped again by the evil Plastic Bag

Ye old Plastic Bag will be the death of me. To put it bluntly he is my nemesis. So much so that my life has become a showdown of sorts - me against the dreaded Bag made of ingredients that can't be broken down, not for a hundred years or so.

Yes, he is strong. He even took me hostage for a while (that mean old bag of wind that he can be), cajoling and making me think he would create an easier and more productive life for myself. He's a liar, though, that piece of cheap plastic, and I am trying to free myself yet again.

He has been everywhere in my life for as long as I can remember, taking different forms - sandwich bag, storage bag, garbage bag, grocery bag and even the dreaded poopy bag. He's a wily devil, that Plastic Bag. And sometimes, when I least expect it, he pops up no matter how hard I try to stay far away from his evil ways.

The latest breach has to do with my pet waste bags. I've been using the same ones for about 18 months now. So proud was I that I'd found a "biodegradable" poopy bag. I took my dog for a walk knowing deep in my heart that I was helping Mother Earth because the picture on the front of my baggy container said so! Ah, but as I said before, the Plastic Bag will say things that are not true, just to get you into his grips.

Last week I realized he had pinned me again. I went to purchase my special bags at my special store and guess what? The wording on my box of wonderful poopy bags changed. Where it once said '100 percent biodegradable' now said '100 percent easy to open.' My response, "What the BLEEP does that mean?!"

I abandoned the package on the shelf and rushed home to begin my research (something I should've done 18 months ago), but as I said, Plastic Bag can be a lying sack of, well, some sort of polyethylene.

There was nothing I found online to say why the wording on the poopy bags had changed or how, but I did realize that unless there's a BPI (Biodegradable Products Institute, from the U.S. Composting Council) certification on the box, it's not what you think it is. Great, just like years ago when I was buying something that said 'Organic' and it wasn't actually certified. Now I was getting mad. I'd been duped again by the mean old Bag.

So, once and for all I am taking him down. The ONLY poopy bags I am going to use are those I found made from starch, a corn starch. They're called Bio Bags and actually have a compostable sticker on them. Even has a 10 second plastic bag lesson on the back - a lesson I should've learned a long time ago, but let Plastic Bag fool me instead.

I use cloth bags for shopping, bio bags for poopy and am researching realistic alternative garbage bags. It's not easy, but I figure Plastic Bag will be lurking around every corner trying to lure me back to his way of thinking. No way. Not ever again.

Now, about those plastic storage containers....

Progress vs. Poetry

I've been thinking about Thoreau lately. Rather odd, as I don't live my life by poetry. My life is more of a limerick, truth be told.

Maybe it's because Earth Day just came and went, or maybe it's simply the banging hammer of "progress" outside my window with new homes coming to be and old trees being tossed away, but one quote of Henry David Thoreau's keeps swimming through my thoughts as I go about my day.

"I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."

I don't live in the woods per se, but they are mere steps from my home. Mostly I love it here amongst the trees, besides the pollen that rears its ugly head about twice a year. I've discovered the joy of peacefulness in the evening, listening for the owls and (I could swear) a lone whippoorwill as the majestic moon rises. By day I watch blue birds flutter along the fences and a hawk who keeps an eye on us all from the clear skies above. There are a even a pair of tiny downy woodpeckers of whom have danced before me each morning for a week during my daily sojourns.

All of us seem confused of late by the pounding and drilling and mowing going on, though. Each in our own way seem to be asking for answers and I am at a loss for words. At first I was angry. How dare my life be mowed under by more people. Then I realized that I am part of that progress that is attacking the wild's way of life. I moved here. I take up space. I am not free of blame. It saddens me and makes me wonder how hypocritical am I to claim to love Mother Earth and want to help conserve when I too am part of the problem and not the solution.

I could tie myself to a tree. But what good would that do as all the laws have been abided by and the building legal and just? I could scream and yell, but who would hear or care?

What I can do is simply be more aware. What I buy. How I live. Not just talk a good game, but play like I mean it. Learn from my surroundings and live with no regrets. I am hoping that's what Thoreau meant.

Maybe I should just get back to the limericks, they are way more upbeat than I..."There once was a woman named Bright, whose speed was much faster than light...."