mombrain

The Stages of Rejection

Just as four stages of grief accompany a major loss, MomBrain is here to tell you about the stages of emotion that accompany writerly rejection. This is because a Senior Editor at a Very Large Magazine in NYC has informed MomBrain that her writing is awkward, terrible, uninformative, and bad (her exact words). Then she killed my piece and told me not to contact her ever again.

The last person who rained editorial brimstone around my ears was Mr. W, my 11th grade English teacher who failed my term paper because I was obviously a plagiarist. (How else to explain the use of the word "bucolic," which no 17-year-old would know?) He never did believe me, and only grudgingly raised my grade to a D when I offered to change the word to "pastoral."

But I digress. I have spent the last week gazing at my belly button, crying in my soup, and shaking my fist, remembering every editorial slight I have ever suffered. But I did not waste this experience - oh, no! As every writer knows (even us bad ones), everything is material. So I took notes, just for you. If you are a writer and an editor rejects your work, you may experience the following emotions:

STAGE 1: Disbelief. (What the?) You may experience numbness, shock, or a prolonged out-of-body feeling. MomBrain floated above her own head for several hours.

STAGE 2: Suicidal Intent. (I suck.) Humiliation and self-loathing may accompany visions of your writing tacked to a lunchroom bulletin board, with a pack of editors splashing ramen noodle broth on it as they double over laughing. This may be a good time to ask your partner to hide all sharp objects.

STAGE 3: Murderous Rage. (You suck.) How much does a hit man cost? Does her boss know she treats writers this way? Is it worth $18 to deliver dead roses? Again, hide the sharp objects.

STAGE 4: Peace that passeth understanding. (Om.) You begin to believe your friends who tell you how wonderful you are, even if they are liars. You resolve to take the high road, be the professional, and refuse to stoop to her level. "The best revenge is writing well!!!" you crow, and drag out the novel you started and abandoned during the last NaNoWriMo.

STAGE 5: Reckless abandon. (Screw serenity.) You've already burned the bridge, so what the hell. You blog about it, although you are not so reckless as to name names. Or in Mr. W's case, you give him regular coffee instead of decaf the next time he eats where you waitress part-time.

Blog Book Tour: It's a Girl!

Grade: A+++

I'm immensely pleased to be kicking off the blog book tour for It's a Girl, which was just published by Seal Press. Now, those who know MomBrain know that I read a lot of books, and I can be hard to please. But few books have given me as much pleasure or provoked as much thought as this one.

Disclaimer: I do not have a daughter. I have a son, the (in)famous Little Guy, who has taught me everything I know about Legos and construction equipment. He has also made me realize -- deeply and against all my early feminist training -- that boys really are different from girls. So before I say anything else about this book, I need to apologize to all my friends who have daughters. For years I have carried the smug and secret belief that they had an easier job. After all, they were girls once themselves. Unlike me, the mother of a son, they speak the language. They know the emotional terrain. They have a map. (Pause for hysterical laughter ... now ducking the rotten tomatoes ...)

What I did not realize, until I read this book, is that raising girls may not be harder, but it's so much more complex. I mean, it's hard enough just to raise your kid to adulthood in one piece. But raising a girl also requires opening the Hefty bag of issues that every woman I know carries with her. As for me, I open my personal Hefty bag only during secret, private moments of despair. And I can go for weeks pretending it doesn't even exist. But reading this book made me realize what a luxury it is to untangle my issues with femininity just as I have always done: privately and with little risk to others.

Question: My son loves my soft, squishy, huggable body. But what would I do if my daughter developed an eating disorder, after a lifetime of watching me struggle with my weight?

Question: I'm grateful for the amazing amount of time the Big Guy plays with and cares for the Little Guy. But what feelings of weird jealousy might be stirred by Daddy's little princess?

Question: The Little Guy will grow up to be yet another privileged white male in a culture made for men like him. But what would I tell my daughter about her future as a mother and wife, when I myself feel so betrayed by all those rosy feminist promises?

Reading "It's a Girl" will make me a better friend, a better daughter, and someday a better mother-in-law. So thank you to all who contributed. I am humbled, enlightened, and grateful to you for sharing your experience, which is entirely different -- and more complicated in so many ways -- than mothering a son.

Welcome Home

And finally, the very best part of coming home to a Little Guy who is just learning to read and spell. Trumpeted in the airport and accompanied by a big hug:

"I love you, M-O-M-Y!!!"

Jet Lag Blues

Pity poor MomBrain. Jet-lagged, caffeine-deprived and late for a workshop, she left her wallet -- with her hotel room key -- at the local McStarbucks. But she didn't realize it until much later. This is how she found herself walking a mile. In the snow. Uphill. With a broken foot.

I made it to workshop #2, which was so crowded I had to sit on the floor for an hour and a half. Lunch followed, and by then I had a full-blown migraine. So I skipped the rest of the afternoon and headed back to the hotel, where I bought aspirin and People Magazine, luxuriated in a hot shampoo-bubble bath, and napped for an hour. I am still woozy and sick, but I'm wearing my favorite jammies, which is a very good thing. Next step: room service, then I'll work on an article that's due in less than a week that I haven't even started.

The Chicken Dance

Thanks for joining us as we blog-cast live from the Erma Bombeck Humor Writing Workshop in downtown cosmopolitan Dayton, Ohio.

300 humor writers are here, ranging from wannabes to stars, most of them genuinely amusing and eager to network. I feared it would be a lot of forced hilarity, a bunch of tap-dancing clowns of the type I find exhausting. But I've met some charming people, and hope to meet some charming editors in the next couple of days, preferably very powerful editors who are looking for writers JUST LIKE ME.

Actual workshops start tomorrow, but tonight was all about the meet & greet. The usual conference dinner was served in the ballroom, with instant potatoes and chardonnay that was warmer than the chicken. But Dave Barry was the keynote speaker, and the man is genuinely funny.

Also, I was the most popular girl in class when people discovered I had a digital camera with me. I now have many pictures of smiling strangers hugging Dave Barry, plus a little stack of business cards with cryptic key words written on them like "beard" and "flowers."

Marriott Hotel - Dayton OH

At first glance, or sniff, the Marriott Hotel in Dayton, Ohio is a no go. It smells exactly like what it is - a McHotel that has recently converted most of its rooms from smoking to non-smoking. So instead of a fresh-as-a-daisy smell, you get that  too-sweet air freshener smell that's covering up the stale cigarette smell in the carpet.

Anyone who knows MomBrain can tell you she has a very delicate sniffer. We do not suffer icky smells gladly. And so it took a couple hours to get past the olfactory onslaught and see that the Dayton Marriott is a work in progress, with some lovely touches. Despite the same old hotel room decor, consider the poofy down comforters on the new mattresses ... the count 'em ... eight pillows that are perfectly squishy and firm at the same time ... the waterfall showerhead ... the high speed Internet access in the room ... the large park with running trails and pond and acres of grass and trees. I woke up headache-free, which is unusual when I'm traveling because in addition to my high olfactory standards, I also have pillow issues.

Sadly, after my champagne waterfall shower (complete with hoity toity toiletries), I realized the downside of being next to a park; namely, we are not next to a Starbucks. The hotel has no coffeeshop, no breakfast restaurant, no muffins in the lobby. The nearest restaurants are only a mile away, but I didn't rent a car and I'm still hobbling on a broken foot. So I settled for gift shop coffee and reminded myself that I probably won't die if I skip breakfast. And lunch.

Other notes: The Business Center is just a computer in the corner of the gift shop. Lovely indoor pool, though a bit on the small side. Friendly service, thorough housekeeping, and a comfy lobby with wireless Internet access.

Grade: B

An Open Letter to Steve Jobs

Dear Mr. Jobs,

MomBrain loves her iPod. Truly, she does. It's right up there with the Sack and her suede kitty purse in terms of favorite things. But those dang earbuds are my least favorite thing, because they HURT.

Surely MomBrain can't be the only iPod fan with delicate, princess-like ear holes. So in the interest of preventing further damage to my soft tissues, can't you make smaller earbuds for your more delicate fans? Our cartilage will thank you.

Hugs and kisses,

MomBrain

Freedom, She Is a Girl

Last week, driving the Little Guy to school on a bitterly cold morning, I was stuck in traffic and still bundled in my hat and mittens when I saw a girl flash by on a bike. Wearing nothing but jeans and a white t-shirt, with two long black pigtails flying behind her, she stood on the pedals and weaved through the cars, then flew up and over a grassy hill. Watching her fly, stuck in the smoky exhaust of a winter traffic jam, I wanted to be her. I looked at the hill for a long time after she disappeared.

Book Review: Literary Mama

Welcome to the latest stop on the Blogging Book Tour for Literary Mama: Reading for the Maternally Inclined.

"What?" you might ask. "I thought Literary Mama was a Web site!" And indeed it is. But it is also now a book, a collection of the best essays culled from the Web site. And they are truly, truly fab.

Many, many books line the walls of MomBrain's home. But only a few have many, many passages underlined, and this is one of them. I couldn't help myself. So much of it spoke to my experiences as a mother and a writer that the old purple pen got quite a workout.

I <heart> this book. It's an amazing combination of humor, grief and grace that had me alternately weeping and smiling. Love it, love it, love it.

A Million Little Lies

In which we deconstruct the embellishments of life with MomBrain ...

By now we've all heard about James Frey, and how - in Maureen Dowd's words - his bony, lying, non-fiction butt was kicked out of the Kingdom of Oprah. And it has caused much navel gazing here at MomBrain HQ. It should be obvious that many of MomBrain's accounts are ... how you say ... embellished. I mean, I am a mom, and I do have a wicked big noggin. But - surprise! - my name is not really MomBrain. And in the interest of storytelling, I sometimes play loose with details. For example, there is nothing about me that is remotely delicate or princess-like, except for my wrists, which are alramingly bony. I did really break my foot. But the man who wheeled me through the hospital was not nice. He was fat. And grumpy.

So, in the interest of truth in advertising, here is my last post written more factually:

I broke my foot when I slipped on some stairs. The next day it was very swollen and discolored, so my husband took me to the emergency room. A fat man pushed me in a Cirrus 3 Lightweight Manual Wheelchair and parked me in the hallway, where I read the New Yorker.

My son likes my crutches, which he pronounces "crusses." And I'm grateful to my husband for taking good care of me, but I'm worried that I'll need too much help.

There. I'm sure you'll all agree that the factual account is a much more compelling story.

So, in the interest of truth in advertising, here is my last post written more factually:

I broke my foot when I slipped on some stairs. The next day it was very swollen and discolored, so my husband took me to the emergency room. A fat man pushed me in a Cirrus 3 Lightweight Manual Wheelchair and parked me in the hallway, where I read the New Yorker.

My son likes my crutches, which he pronounces "crusses." And I'm grateful to my husband for taking good care of me, but I'm worried that I'll need too much help.