Monday, September 18, 2017

Guest Blogger Pam Lobley on How She Wrote a Parenting Book Without Really Meaning To

I met fellow New Jersey writer Pam Lobley when we were paired together on a panel at a book festival this past summer. Pam has been a humor columnist for The Bergen Record, one of the state’s largest newspapers, and for three years she wrote the “Now That’s Funny” column for (now defunct) New Jersey Newsroom. She has also written for the New York Times, Philadelphia Inquirer, Baltimore Sun, St. Louis Post-Dispatch,, Huffington Post, BlogHer,, Carolina Parent and others.

Please welcome Pam Lobley

It was a rainy day in March. I was sifting through a stack of signup sheets for summer activities for my kids. My two boys were eight and ten at the time, and I usually planned plenty of summer activities to keep them busy. But we were already so frantic and over-scheduled that I couldn’t imagine signing them up for anything. 

I asked my friend Jane what her kids were going to do. Jane, obviously feeling just as overwhelmed, snapped, “Nothing! We’re having a summer from the 1950s.”

Wow! That sounded like just what we needed, too. An old-fashioned summer with no plans at all. We did it, I wrote a book about it (of course), and then I began to shop the book around.

To me the most interesting aspect of my memoir was the juxtaposition between the  “ideal” 1950s image of a relaxed summer for both kids and parents, and our current frantic, stressed-out family lifestyle of summer days packed with tightly organized classes and programs, and me in the car all day ferrying kids to and fro. I read quite a bit about 1950s family life and laced the book with insights from my research. I even had some very funny quotes from 1950’s magazine ads:

 In this friendly, freedom-loving land of ours … Beer Belongs – Enjoy It!
                                                    1955 United State Brewers Foundation

Learning about 1950s family life–the bad and the good–gave me a huge dose of perspective on my own outlook, and in the book, I wrote about how it changed me, and the ways it seemed my kids had also benefited. My working title was “A Summer from the 1950s.”

I got an agent who loved the idea but after a rewrite, the feedback from publishers was that the title sounded like the story of my grandmother’s summer, which appealed to no one. We needed a new title, and I knew it had to resonate with stressed-out modern moms. After weeks of thinking it through, Why Can't We Just Play? What I Did When I Realized My Kids Were Way Too Busy was born.

The book sold to a publisher whose focus is creating books that help families be happy. This thrilled me because that’s exactly what I felt I was doing – writing a memoir that would help other moms be happier by adopting a less frenetic family summer.

But now the agent and the publisher began to see my story as a parenting book. Maybe this was obvious to everyone else,  but came as a surprise to me. I thought parenting books were books by people who were bona fide parenting experts. I was not a therapist or teacher or doctor - just a mom who had a certain type of experience, and wanted to pass it on.

What they understood is that just because a book is on the parenting shelf at the bookstore, it doesn’t have to be advice from an expert; it can also be adventures in parenting: stories, personal insights, lessons learned. Why Can’t We Just Play? fits that description exactly. In addition, it portrays a strong viewpoint,  namely that kids simply need more time to play without instruction, guidance, organization, or adult expectations. Free play is vital for good childhood development, and it is getting increasingly squeezed out of kids’ lives. That viewpoint gave us a strong marketing angle.  

Treating my book as a parenting book rather than a memoir also made it much easier to market after it was published. When I do a podcast or write a column, I can talk about a variety of childhood issues: overscheduling, down time, recess, screen time, signs of stress in kids, or the ways that free play teaches kids independence. I have many different angles to discuss – all of which can lead back to the book but stand on their own as interesting topics apart from my personal experience. An author constantly needs to find new ways to talk about their book as they try to sell it, so this is very beneficial.

As I shifted my vision of my book from memoir to parenting, I learned a bunch of things, including these:

- There must be a  “take-away”. Non-fiction books need a concise and readily accessible message. During rewrites, I had to hone in on what the reader would take away from my book.

- The title needs to be crystal clear in expressing the book’s message; being overly clever wouldn’t work. My original title, “A Summer from the 1950s” did nothing to give a potential reader the idea of my book.

- Trust the agent and  publisher. They understand  which aspects  will appeal the most to readers. All my favorite things -- the funny quotes, the historical insights, my sense of humor – they knew that these were the least interesting things to readers. When I talk to readers myself now, I see that they mostly relate to my feeling of overwhelm, and are interested in my struggle to slow down and give my kids more time to play. All of which I am very happy about; it’s just not how I originally viewed my memoir. I mean … my parenting book.

Because of my experience, I have gained a keen new appreciation for non-fiction books. Which is a good thing because my kids are older now, and I have a lot more material. Naturally, I’m working on my next parenting book. Hopefully I’ll get the title right the first time.

Learn more by visiting Pam’s website, or connecting on Twitter or Facebook.

Friday, September 15, 2017

Friday Fridge Clean-Out: Links for Writers -- September 15, 2017 Edition

> This-just-in department: "House Votes to Save Library Funding, NEA and NEH" according to Publishers Weekly.

> As they mark their 10th anniversary, Fiction Writers Review is featuring interviews from the archives, including this one with Jesmyn Ward about "Getting the Sough Right" on the page.

> Speaking of Ward, her novel, Sing, Unburied, Sing, is on the 2017 National Book Award longlist.

> Bookish offers its Fall 2017 Nonfiction Book Preview. And now I need an eighth day in every week.

> Shelf Awareness reports how some Florida bookstores are getting back to business after Irma, and what one publisher is doing to help.

> Thomas E. Ricks tells the story of how his latest book was vastly improved during a long, thorough revision/rewriting process, after his editor trashed his initial manuscript.

> The WOW! Women on Writing newsletter features (and connects to) myriad topics of interest, including craft and technique, submission, publishing, and marketing issues facing writers. I'm pleased to be featured in the current issue in "Success Stories From You," amid so much other helpful information.

> Here's what's new in the just-published 17th edition of the Chicago Manual of Style. (Or, as it's known in my house - Mom's Paperweight.)

> Wondering if the newish American Writers Museum in Chicago is worth a visit? Wonder no more.

> Finally -- We've all seen the article or blog post about how publishing a book is like birthing a baby or having kids (I even featured a guest post like that.) But the way Austin Gilkeson does it at The Rumpus in "Congratulations on Publishing Your First Baby" is an entirely new and fun take on the trope. Enjoy!

Have a great weekend!

Image: Flickr/CreativeCommons 

Tuesday, September 12, 2017

Home from Hippocamp with a Bunch of Thoughts about Writers Conferences

I’ve begun, and put aside, several drafts of a wrap-up post about my time at Hippocamp: A Conference for Creative Nonfiction Writers, in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, this past weekend. (I was both a speaker and attendee.)

Partly I hesitated because it’s getting more difficult to distill every good thing I want to say about my personal experience and history with this conference (which, since it began in 2015, has come to feel like a kind of home base). But also because I wanted my post-conference report to be something useful to any writer who happens upon it, regardless of genre, location, finances, or personal conference experiences, etc. 

During several periods in my writing life I attended no conferences, and other times I could get to just a few, dictated by a confluence of budget, geography, logistics, day-job demands, family logistics. When I could attend, I had to be picky. 

I came to understand that a conference will not make me a better writer or a more published writer by itself. But the right conference can helping make one into a writer who better knows how to identify, create, pursue, participate in, and evaluate the writing life, career, projects, and submission/publication plan that will work best for me, and make me happy.

So, I thought I’d offer this list, and hope it has some value for others. All these things line up for me with the Hippocamp conference, and by extension might help you pick conferences.

What makes a writing conference right:

. It directly, seriously, fully, and openly addresses, embraces, and celebrates the genre or category of writing most important to you. If you can find it, specialization rocks! One big reason I love Hippocamp is that it’s focused on CNF writing. Yes, I learn a lot at conferences that aren’t so specialized, but a hyper-focused event means you are with your tribe. Everything that happens, each break-out session, panel, reading, or other element is for folks who write what you write.

. Enough of what’s on offer is for writers at your skill and/or experience level. Yes, it’s good when some sessions push you to extend your reach; that’s good for learning what to aspire to. But do you want to spend all day, or most of many days, feeling either completely overwhelmed because you have no idea what the speakers are talking about, or bored and antsy because you already know and have mastered what’s being covered.

. The mix, intent, and focus of material jives with what you want and need now. Only craft-related sessions? Hands-on (“generative”) sessions? Lecture style only? Workshops (with feedback)? Presentations with opportunities for Q-and-A? Marketing/submission/querying skills?

. The size fits. I love a mid-sized conference best so I can make personal connections. Small to mid-sized events usually also foster casual, follow-up interactions with speakers and presenters at meals, breaks, and just wandering about the venue—another thing I like. (I do occasionally like a huge conference, but for very different reasons.)

. The conference organizers respect every attendee, and don’t play favorites. This is one of those intangibles that, for me, can make or break a conference experience. At Hippocamp for example, I’ve heard attendees describe the organizers in ways you might reserve for your favorite teacher, coach, or BFF: they listen, help, and care. Every person on the grounds is IN THE CLUB. (I’ve attended way too many conferences where some writers are made to feel inadequate and lesser-than because they don’t “have a book,” are not sufficiently well-connected, and find themselves feeling left out in an us-and-them kind of way.) At Hippocamp, the club is everyone in the room. Look for that.

. The fees make sense. Who wants to be someplace where you feel the conference is mostly interested in your wallet? I happen to like conference fees that also include meals, coffee, snacks and parking; offer hotel room discounts; and small goodies that make me feel welcome. If I can get that, and it also lines up with reasonable travel costs, I’m in. (Don’t go broke attending conferences.)

. Everything’s included, but there’s also an a-la-carte add-on menu. One year at Hippocamp, I paid for agent pitch sessions, other years not. Twice I took a pre-conference workshop. Choices like that can add value to your time away from home, and (for someone like me who likes to cram every hour with something useful), make the conference a more robust writerly experience.

. There’s a little bit of fun built right in. Door prizes? A casual open mic? Fun snacks? Optional, casual meal meet-ups for when it seems everyone else has made dining plans? We’re writers, not robots, and only some find it easy to organize themselves socially.

My door prize from Hippocamp!
. The conference encourages, and facilitates, continued learning beyond the time limit of each program element. I like to leave a session with something that I’ll consult later (besides my own notes) -- handouts, recommended links, the speaker’s email address or resource website, maybe something I’ve been urged to generate during the session. Even better if (as is the case with Hippocamp), I can find some speakers’ entire slide presentations on the conference website later. 

. There's a balance between too much and just enough. One day? Four days? Five break-out sessions running concurrently? Or 25 to choose from simultaneously? A crammed daily schedule or one with breaks and free (writing?) time built in? Each is likable for different reasons, by different writers. What do you like at a conference?

. The organizers want your feedback. Whether it’s a matter of listening sincerely to an in-person complaint or suggestion during the conference, or providing and urging attendees to fill out post-event surveys, I like it when speaking up about what didn’t go quite right, what was stellar, and what might be a good future addition (or deletion), feels welcomed.

I’m sure I’ve left something out. What do you love about, and look for in the conferences you attend? 

Images: Crowd illustration - Flickr/Creative Commons-openDemocracy; others, mine.

Friday, September 8, 2017

Friday Fridge Clean-Out: Links for Writers -- September 8, 2017 Edition

> Need to scan old, perhaps not-great-condition photos for a writing project? Google has a new app that looks as if it might be the answer. I'm itching to try, and wish I'd known about it a few months ago when scanning pics for my forthcoming memoir. (h/t Simplemost)

> I loved this essay at the Woven Tale Press, in which Beth Kephart draws writing inspiration and insight from the painter Andrew Wyeth. (Well, of course I love it. I've admired Beth's writing for 20 years, and thanks to my own inspiration--via friend and writing supporter Christina Baker Kline (whose latest novel was inspired by Wyeth's most  famous subject) -- I visited Wyeth's Cushing, Maine painting base this summer).

> Congrats to the new "Debs" -- five authors, from different genres, whose books will all debut in 2018, and who will be taking readers along for the ride via frequent blog posts at The Debutante Ball. 

> Excellent tips for aspiring op-ed writers, from columnist Bret Stephens at The New York Times.

> Finally, buying your way onto the bestseller lists. And getting caught. Here's the long, gossipy, tweet-laden, multiply-updated story. And the shorter, concise version of how the New York Times reacted.

Have a great weekend!   (And if you happen to be spending it at the Hippocamp Conference for Creative Nonfiction Writers, please do say hi!)

Monday, August 28, 2017

Memoir Book Report – Part III: The Pitch Session that Changed Everything (even though it was "unsuccessful")

Third in a series following my memoir as it moves from manuscript to published book (May 2018). You can find the first two installments here.

I mentioned in the last post that I'd drop back now and then to glimpse what transpired before I knew my book had found its home. A lot happened before—some of it perhaps helpful to those currently seeking a publisher for a memoir (or any book, for that matter).

Dropping back to spring of 2016, one year exactly before I signed with University of Nevada Press, I began to query small traditional publishers who accept un-agented work—boutique literary publishers, some university presses; and I entered a few book manuscript contests.

Except for the contests, this meant I needed a compelling query/cover letter. That's where my background in public relations, and experience getting assignments for freelance articles helped—and also hindered me. It's one thing to be proficient at tooting the horn of a client, as PR pros do, and landing article assignments about topics that I'm interested in but that aren't as passionately close to my heart, as my memoir. It's quite another to evaluate, position, and pitch your own work—and harder still to separate one's writing self from one's memoir manuscript.

My first query/cover letter was good, but not great; a bit too workmanlike and overly focused on literary craft. I was, perhaps, trying to follow too much differing advice: mirror the voice of the book – give the full narrative scope as you would a novel – highlight the published excerpts – focus on author background and publishing history – sell the takeaway – emphasize the emotional arc. In the first six months, I got a handful of requests for opening chapters, and was long-listed for one contest. But no requests for the full manuscript.

I had an inkling I wasn't being my own best advocate. I was too close to the work and could not really see what to do differently. Mind you, I routinely help revise and edit others' query letters and synopses (many of which have led to publishing deals), but you know what they say about doctors who treat themselves (they have a fool for a patient!).

We all have blind spots, and it would turn out mine were labeled: (1) Thinking too small. (2) Thinking too much like a writer.

I attended a writers conference in fall of 2016 and—reluctantly but thinking why not—signed up for three slots in the agent pitch sessions. Faced with a strict five minutes to interest them in my manuscript and answer their questions--across a tiny round table, with 20 other tiny round table pitching conversations happening in the room--I had to frame my story in a compelling way that cut through the noise and what I can only imagine is the mental exhaustion agents experience in such a setting.

Did I mention that I love talking to new people, listening, and learning from them?

The first two were polite and seemingly enthusiastic, asking me to send them chapters. Just as important, I was able to see—on their faces, in their body language, the way they moved their gaze from me to my pages—and to hear—in their tone of voice, pauses, inflection—which of my words, descriptions, phrasing, and focal points were resonating. And which were falling flat.

But the third agent delivered the true value of those 15 minutes. He prompted me to re-evaluate how I was thinking about my book and how I'd been positioning it when querying. He listened to my initial 45-second spiel, asked a question or two, skimmed the first few pages (we'd been instructed to bring along).

Then he said something like this: Let's assume it's a given that your work is beautifully written, well structured, highly polished. I’m not your MFA mentor; you don't have to convince me you're a good writer. I want you to tell me who your ideal reader is and why they will want to read this instead of a bunch of other books. Tell me why your book would interest someone who is not in the literary world. What might this memoir mean to someone you don't know? What's the message? Think big.

Wouldn’t most writers have wanted an hour to draft, revise, and rewrite something in response to that? But he was waiting for me to reply, then and there, across that tiny table, in that buzzing room. For maybe the first time, I allowed myself to imagine my manuscript as a finished book, one that deserved space on a bookstore shelf, a book that went way beyond little old me telling my story. A book with bigger sweep. With something to say to strangers, something of value.

After I finished talking for a minute or so (rambling, more like), he smiled and said, That's more like it. Now I'm interested.

This two-minute exchange changed everything.

It shifted my thinking back to my early PR days. Now I was the client with a product to publicize. What makes this client's product (book) not only great, but preferable to others? What—in sales terms—is the (book's) Unique Selling Proposition? Why this product (book) and not another one?

I had been thinking of, and perhaps positioning the manuscript as a creative project, entirely me-driven—which is how one must think of a manuscript while writing it—instead of a book, one of many competing for attention of readers. It now had to stand out as something completely separate from me, separate from my writing brain, my personal life, even from my reasons for writing it.

When I left the pitch session, I found a quiet spot in the hotel lobby, pulled out my computer and wrote an entirely new query letter. There would be six more months of querying, but those were dotted frequently with requests for chapters, and, in the end, five requests for the full manuscript.

Although it was an in-person unplanned meeting—during which I talked about my book—with the director of my future publisher (and not my revised query letter) that led to the offer I'd accept (I eventually had two offers), I credit that agent I met in a nerve-wracking pitch session six months before, for setting me in motion on a new track. His challenge that day changed the way I thought about, and talked about, my book. And that changed everything.

Other posts in the series – Part I (Contract signing, waiting period; working with a university press); Part II (Final manuscript revisions). 

You can find tips on preparing for pitch sessions at this post from Susan Breen

Images: Flickr/CreativeCommons -- Heart-shaped book pages (TimGeers); Conversation silhouette (TerenceChang/Peautlen); 

Friday, August 25, 2017

Friday Fridge Clean-Out: Links for Writers -- August 25, 2017 Edition

> Flesh out your fictional characters by thinking of them as...horses? Yes, says Roz Morris.

> This Quartz piece's stance is a bit strident, but I do agree that sometimes talking, talking, talking about writing projects can often drain them of creative energy. 

> Indivisible and the Op-Ed Project offer some tips and guidelines for writing editorial advocacy materials (scroll down).

> Literary journals open and close to submissions according to predictable--and often unpredictable--schedules. AuthorsPublish offers this list of journals that are always open.

> Ever have someone scrawl in the margins of your work: Head Hopping! or POV shift? ...and not be precisely sure what this means or how to avoid it? Here's a primer.

> Brag Box Times Two: 
           Since I'm already partial to stories in which the weather is a kind of character, that makes this flash piece, written by my former MFA student Bethany Petano, twice as nice.
           Many congratulations to my former client Kathryn Sollmann, on her book contract with Hachette for Ambition Redefined: Creating Lifetime Security (Without Neglecting Your Family or Yourself) in a More Flexible Workplace. It was a pleasure working with Kathryn on the book proposal that helped her land the agent who sold her book! 

> Finally, you have until August 26 to leave a comment on Melissa Palmer's guest post and maybe snag a complimentary copy of one of her books.

Have a great weekend!

Tuesday, August 22, 2017

Author Interview with Carol Smallwood on her new poetry book, Prisms, Particles, and Refractions

As part of my MFA research thesis, I interviewed a dozen women memoir writers, and had enough overflow information to write several essays and articles, two of which appeared in Women Writing on Family: Tips on Writing, Teaching, and Publishing (Key Publishing House, 2012). Carol Smallwood co-edited that book, has edited or co-edited several dozen other anthologies and collections, and has written six books of her own poetry. The latest is Prisms, Particles, and Refractions (Finishing Line Press). I read the galley the day of the solar eclipse, awaiting the sky to darken during a bright New Jersey afternoon, which felt right: the timing, the way the light was shifting in my office, what the poems have to say about light. Carol agreed to answer my nosy questions.

LR: As is the case for many poetry books, many poems were first published in journals and websites, over several years. When / how in the course of writing single poems, and seeing some published, do you get a sense of what belongs together in a collection/book?

CS: It is very fitting you asked questions about light on the long anticipated solar eclipse day! After several have been published, one gets an overview on what works and I can see a theme. The new collection I’m compiling now came about from one its poems being in the Thirteenth Annual International Ultra-Short Competition (sponsored by The Binnacle at The University of Maine at Machias: Honorable Mention Ultra-Short Edition 2016). The poem, “We Select”  became the Prologue to A Matter of Selection dealing with making choices, selections.

LR: In the Foreword, Lisa Zaran praises your book for "its vision and identification of darkness". Your Introduction says that your poems are "aimed at capturing some of the aspects of light—light that our eyes detect and light also as metaphor." Can you talk about the inspiration, opposites, and influences of light and dark on your writing?

CS: Poetry with me begins with a clash,  or what is called in creative writing classes: juxtaposition. And of course metaphor is vital also so the theme of light is one full of application.  How we see has always fascinated me especially since taking a college class which examined rods and cones in vision.

LR: One of my favorites is "Cuttlefish" because it asks a reader to consider things that aren't typically thought of together – fish, underwater darkness, light, bioluminescence, being able to change one's body. Can you comment on where this poem came from, and what you like about it as its author?

survive by matching their
environment, changing the
color and texture of skin
in a blink of W-shaped
pupil eyes; they dazzle
with light patterns like
some marquee—if that
doesn’t work, they exit
in an inky cloud

CS: This poem was in my first chapbook to be published: On the Way to Wendy’s (Pudding House Publications,  2008). It came from watching a science program on PBS because how they managed to survive was so amazing.

LR: As I read, I was continually reminded of how much depends on light or its lack, how emotions are tied to visual light cues: everything from lacework and its openings that let in light; the light between snow as it falls; the technical upside-down qualities of human vision; the sun, stars, black holes. I'm curious if light is something you have always observed? After writing so much about it, are you still seeing the world as light? Or does that keen focus wane after the themed poetry collection is complete?

CS: You covered the light cues very well, Lisa. I’ve not even scratched the surface about understanding light and it continues to be something to wonder about; its implications with us are unending. My interest in light perhaps began with a professor having us write questions we wanted to know in a freshman psychology class. He really liked my light questions which reinforced my interest.

LR: I wondered if "Live With It"—a poem about experiencing a seemingly permanent jagged black lightning bolt across the vision in one eye—was perhaps autobiographical and maybe a trigger for the light theme? Or am I just asking that awful question readers ask novelists about what parts of their fiction are "true"?

CS: The jagged lightning did happen (fortunately only once) but it wasn’t the beginning of my collection on light.

LR: When reading about light, one might expect to encounter gardens, the sun, the outdoors, space, etc. But other physical locations also repeat in several poems – the eye doctor's office, the library, Wendy's,  the hospital, Nicolet City, the deep ocean.  Intentional, or coincidence? What might a reader take away from those less expected settings?

CS: Usually my inspiration comes not far from what I literally see which is a tiny amount of course—each of us has their own worlds, settings, from which we see. I didn’t start writing poetry until years after editing anthologies largely for librarians as I was afraid it was beyond me after literature classes in grad school on classics like John Milton. After retiring from public schools, I wrote a novel and feeling I had nothing to lose after that rough learning experience, tried poetry which was as if jumping off a cliff (had no idea if it was good or bad) and was amazed when I began getting journal acceptances. Writing poetry and editing at the same time provides a good balance for me.

LR: There's an interesting mix of both free verse and formal poems, and some prose poetry. Is that how you write, alternating between forms? Do certain topics demand one specific form over another? Or is it the other way around: you want to write free verse, or you want to write something formal, and so then cast about for a story to tell in that particular way?

CS:  A few days ago I tried writing about Sirius, and The Big Dipper, as triolets and villanelles but what I wanted to convey wouldn’t fit the rhyme schemes so will have to try free verse or maybe a  pantoum, sestina, cinquain, or others. What I saved  trying to write them hopefully will be of use yet.

Learn more about Carol by visiting her page at Poets & Writers, and browse her books here. Another interview with Carol is found over at Literary Mama.

Image: courtesy Carol Smallwood. "Cuddlefish" reprinted with permission.

Thursday, August 17, 2017

The Art of Waiting while Writing...Writing while Waiting

Often, writers chat about The Art of Waiting (Waiting, not Writing). Only we don't call it that. We call it, "Why the hell isn't that editor/ agent/publisher/whoever getting back to me?" Or, "It's been X days/weeks/months, so he/she/they must hate my essay/poem/ manuscript/idea." 

Sometimes, the fine Art of Waiting sounds like "F*#k it, I give up."

We have better days, when we act like artists and sensitive souls and try to convince our skeptical selves that all is well.

My father used to say (before cheap long distance, cell phones, and 24-hour news): No news is good news. If he didn't hear from a child who was traveling, on a date, or away at college, he'd assume no planes crashed, the young man was behaving, and no one was flunking out.

I'm rarely that Zen, so I typically wait with nerves jangling, the "dead in a ditch" tape on continuous loop in my head until my kid texts me back.

As a writer, I've learned to wait. And not assume the worst. Usually. Until I decide—based on nothing but a quiet email inbox—that my work, or I, have been found wanting, or forgotten. But then I have an extra busy day myself, notice that I haven't even replied to a text from a close friend, and decide that perhaps the news I'm waiting for is being handled by a similarly busy person. Or that the wait is taking precisely as long as it has should. Still, I worry as I wait.

This past spring, I had to wait for some of the most important news of my writing life, and as the calendar plodded on, I noticed a call for submission on the theme of "Waiting and Motherhood." There's nothing better for a writer who's waiting than to stay busy…writing.

What came to the page—titled, "From Boys to Men," in the lovely online magazine Motherwell—is an essay I love. It traces the most critical wait of a mother's life: those twenty-ish  years while we wait to see if our handiwork yields the desired result: a mature (okay, mostly mature) adult child that, unlike the first pancake, turns out just fine. Great, in fact.

I love writing essays in the second person, which is what I did here; the prose seemed to materialize on the page that way and the POV seemed right from the start. I thought it might be interesting reading at this time of year, as so many parents are sending their almost grown children off to college, again or for the first time.

Here’s an excerpt:
 "… First, you wait to conceive, wait for the fertility tests to reveal what flaws and whose, wait for the drugs to work, wait for that positive pregnancy test. You try to, but can’t describe the fearful waiting through a high risk pregnancy, the anxious waiting of prenatal testing, the watchful waiting for boy number one to blossom. Wait for the right time to have the second baby, wait after the miscarriage to try again, wait for that strangle-throated boy number two to leave the NICU.Wait. Hope. Pray. Wait.Two years later, you wait…"

You can read the whole (shortish) essay at Motherwell. And if you're inclined, you might share it from that page, as a few thousand folks already have. (This has NO affect on my bank account; it's just a nice thing to do if you think it's worthy, and I know the editors would love it. You can also check out the rest of the Motherhood and Waiting series.).

Meanwhile, if you are waiting for something—acceptances, something to get published, an agent requesting pages, a publisher offering a contract, admission into a writing workshop—I hope you are able to borrow Dad's advice. 

And maybe, write something else?