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.

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."

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.

Recovery Ward

In which MomBrain marvels at the smart, funny, talented women she knows ...

MomBrain has just awoken from a deep, deep snooze. A bookstore reading on Sunday, a second reading on Monday, then a Mother Talk party on Tuesday depleted my batteries, and only one thing can recharge them: sleeeeeeeep, my pretty, sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. The Big Guy has been on Little Guy duty for nearly a week, and I am very, very lucky that he was willing to put in another day so I could swoon.

Mother Talk Seattle was a fabulous success, with opinionated women telling fascinating stories about everything from pain to power to judgment to being a working mother in corporate America. For a blow-by-blow rundown see Andi's blog.

And now ... another nap. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Pass the Kleenex Brand Facial Tissue

In which MomBrain sniffs. A lot.

Wow. Yesterday's reading was one for the scrapbook. First, Queen Anne Books is the loveliest and most beautiful bookstore you will ever see. And the crowd was so warm and receptive. We laughed! We cried! It was the must-see event of the winter! You missed it? Never fear - you can see a repeat performance tonight at Third Place Books. I am hoping not to repeat the entire performance, though. I would like to leave out the sobbing, tomato-faced, raccoon-eyed part. In fact, we will soon announce a new corporate sponsorship from Max Factor Waterproof Mascara.

The Price of Fame

In which MomBrain debates the merits and pressures of fame ...

MomBrain is in a tizzy, and not just because she is overcaffeinated. No, today is a milestone. This afternoon I will give my very first public reading to what I hope is a sympathetic audience. I will be reading my essay from "It's a Boy" and trying very hard to remember to breathe.

I have no problem with public speaking; I'm actually kind of a microphone hog. But the writing life is lived almost entirely inside the head. It's downright freaky to hear words that until now have only been imagined. And because this is an essay about my crazy grandmother who wields power from beyond the grave, I am just the tiniest bit afraid that lightning will strike.

Then of course there is the problem of WHAT TO WEAR. Do I go with the Hip Mama look? Earth mother? June Cleaver? Well. It's not really a question. My wardrobe, she is a tiny thing. And I am reading to mothers, after all, so as long asI don't smell like Spaghettios I should pass  muster.

Madonna or Whore?

In which MomBrain gazes at her delicate, princess-like navel ...

Today I had the great good fortune of bumping into my writing friend Martha at a party. I did not know she would be there. I did not know she knew the hosts. I did not expect my writing world to collide with my school-mommy world. But collide they did, with many happy fizzy bubbles as a result.

Martha and I finagled a few quiet moments next to the 18-foot (!) Christmas tree, and out came all my existential writing angst. It's the old dilemma: write for love, or write for money? I say I want to write for love. In fact, I sold my soul to the devil at the GAS* Company so I could afford to write what I want instead of what sells. And yet I find myself writing about hoochie mama diaper bags and stretch mark cream. I am not helping humanity. I am not provoking people to think. I am not adding beauty to the world. I am a shill. I write about the products that are advertised in magazines.

Make no mistake: The magazine business is not about selling content to readers. It is about selling readers to advertisers. When you buy your favorite magazine at the grocery store checkout line, the $4 you plunk down barely pays for shipping and handling. Everything else - the writing, the photography, the design, the celebrity interviews - is paid for by advertisers. And so it is the advertisers who control the content, and therefore the writers.

That's okay. I mean, producing magazines is expensive, and someone's got to pay for it. I do wish readers were more cynical, though. For example, when a beauty magazine recommends using moisturizer on your dry winter skin and then adds "One we like: Acme Skin Lotion!**" that's not a recommendation. It's a product placement that was probably paid for. So you buy Acme Skin Lotion because Beauty Queen Magazine*** recommended it, when in fact that lotion is nothing more than mayonnaise.

I don't begrudge magazines (or the snake oil supplement companies who own them) from making a buck. It's a business, after all. But it's not the business I want to be in. Hence the navel gazing. What do I want to write? What impact do I want to have as a writer? To get you to buy Acme Skin Lotion? Or to somehow make the world a better place?

I pimped myself out for the GAS* Company because I wanted the money. And it was worth it. But I'm not especially interested in being a whore for the makers of Acme Skin Lotion. How else can a girl make a living, though?

* Giant Acme Software

** A fake product. Please. I have no interest in being sued for slander.

*** Again with the fakery.

Deadline Fever

Oh. My. Goodness. Somehow MomBrain has agreed to write seven articles, all of them due on June 1. Since the Little Guy is in preschool only 8 mornings between now and then, that means one a day. Fly, little fingers, fly!!!

How can you help? Thanks for asking! Tell me your best hangover rememdy - just put it in the comments or email me.

Also in the works - an essay I really care about and want to finish, another essay I want to start, 3000 words of a novel that feels promising, and way too many ideas that I have no time to pursue.

The span of my life seems to alternate between periods when I have lots of time but no money, and enough money but no time. Why is that? When will I have time and money together?

News and Notes

Sue Eccleston of Windstream Publishing shows us that yes, Virginia, there is such a thing as bad publicity.

Here is one of my very favorite profiles and essays ever written. I also love that someone was creative enough to think of Mister Rogers and Esquire at the same time. Kinda like a tamed down version of Playboy and Jimmy Carter.

If you are a professional freelance writer, you really should subscribe to this.

Sister K of Citizen's Rent has asked me to jump in as guest blogger and co-author. Does she realize she just opened Pandora's Box? Bwah ha ha! The genie's out of the bottle now!!!

Hey, Mom, guess what? I just sold an article to Hooters Magazine! Don't look at me like that, or I will tell the world about your little trip to a topless donut shop.