Regrets, I Have More Than a Few

I cringe every time I hear someone claim they have no regrets. I wonder, “Are they that flawless a person? Are they deeply in denial? Have they discovered the secret to accepting their mistakes and moving on, and if that’s the case, would they mind sharing it with me?"

I understand that some people reach a point in their lives where they have found happiness, success, enlightenment, and they view their past as a convoluted but necessary path that brought them to that place. My life isn’t perfect—I’m still waiting for greater professional success and personal enlightenment, and I struggle to be a better mother, wife, friend—but for the first time in many years, I’m happy with my little place in the world, and I realize that if I had made different choices, I might not be able to say that. Yet I don’t believe I will ever be able to say I have no regrets.

A list of lingering regrets, incomplete and in no particular order:

• I regret losing interest in my beloved horse, Darby, when I discovered boys.
• I regret forgetting to dance with my father at my (first) wedding.
• I regret hurting people, deliberately or unintentionally. Every single one of them.
• I regret wasting two years of college drinking and chasing boys.
• I regret not spending more time with my brother.
• I regret that awful perm and makeup during the eighties.
• I regret not visiting my grandfather just weeks before he died.
• I regret the hundreds of times I could have said, “I love you,” but didn’t.
• I regret worrying about what other people think of my appearance. (I’m still working on that.)
• I regret all the time and money I spent on clothes and home décor, trying to impress people.
• I regret the times I made an ass of myself when drunk.
• I regret that I have no relationship with my parents, regardless of the circumstances of our estrangement.
• I regret allowing fear to keep me from doing things I wanted to do.
• I regret losing touch with good friends.
• I regret time wasted worrying.
• I regret that unfortunate tumble down the stairs of the Nordstrom shoe department.
• I regret every chance I passed up to show my daughter something wondrous—a full moon at bedtime, Christmas lights when it was cold and late, a concert that might have been crowded.
• I regret letting that financial advisor talk me out of investing in environmentally-friendly mutual funds.
• I regret that I didn’t make my novel available on Kindle.

For the most part, none of these are life-altering, and I guess that’s my point. If I regretted the big ones—a failed marriage, an imperfect career trajectory, turning down an opportunity to live for two years in Jane Goodall’s house in Tanzania to build her Roots & Shoots program (gah!)—I’d have to acknowledge that the things that now bring me the most joy might be missing from my life.

My daughter was born during my first marriage. How can I second guess anything leading up to the moment my egg said howdy-do to my ex’s sperm and gave us a healthy baby girl? Divorce was a wrenching decision and painful process, but it allowed me to meet my current (and final) husband, who makes both my daughter and me happier than I thought possible.

My diverse work experience has provided a range of skills that I hope will one day make it possible for me to earn a better living doing what I enjoy: writing, editing, and futzing around with website design and development.

And the Jane Goodall project? I still kick myself over that one, because I sometimes imagine the adventure of living in Tanzania, the satisfaction of teaching children to be responsible stewards of their own environment, and the sheer awesomeness of working with Jane Goodall. But if those two years had sent my life in a different direction—one that didn’t include my quirky little family and friends and a promising, fulfilling career—I wouldn’t be the same kind of happy I am today, regrets and all.

Cozying up to Chaos.

I used to thrive under pressure. I worked a ten-hour day, ran errands on my lunch hour, picked up dinner before catching the bus home and did some freelance writing on the side. My house was clean and tidy, my pets were well taken care of and I threw dinner parties that involved recipes from Gourmet Magazine. When I left my job for a six-month sabbatical, three people took over my various responsibilities. Even when I started freelancing from home as a software developer, I became so engrossed in my projects that I would forget to eat or even get up to pee until I was in dire pain. And I was never more productive than when I was under a deadline, particularly if I'd put off something until the last minute. Case in point: I took on a fairly large programming job when I was seven months pregnant. It would have been impossible for me to finish it in two months, so I just figured I'd keep cranking it out after Grace was born. Hahahahahah!

I started working on Soft Landing (you know, my NOVEL?) before I had Grace, and tinkered around with it for years. Only when Grace was around two did I find the inspiration to quit messing around and get to work. (Until Grace was two, I was a full-time stay-at-home mom. Grace had a part-time nanny (hi, Sandi!), ostensibly because I was still finishing the aforementioned project, along with tweaking programs for some past clients. When Sandi was there, however, I usually napped or went grocery shopping.) So I was the mother of a toddler, still working, and I managed to write a book in my free time.

These days, it can take me a whole day (while Grace is at pre-school, mind you) to do the things I used to do on my lunch hour or after work. Even then, it's never done. Chaos reigns here in The Cave, and in my oddly dysfunctional brain, I can't convince myself to spend any significant time writing unless everything is in order. Which is absurd, because everything will never be in order. It's a problem. I know it's not a terribly original problem, that even writers who love to write will find countless reasons to not write. But I have a limited window to finish my current novel, and it's getting smaller and smaller.

We live in the midst of unpacked boxes, dirty dishes, unfolded laundry, toys strewn everywhere and tumbleweeds of dog hair floating about. My own personal nemeses are stacks of unopened mail and unpaid bills; missed appointments and unanswered emails; half-finished paperwork and neglected correspondence that taunt me every time I glance at my desk. I know women who manage to keep up with life's chores while working full-time and raising kids. I am no longer one of those women. I try to blame part of it on being a single mom, but that's just weak. I have plenty of time to take care of business; I simply choose to spend (waste?) my time on other things. I've become that flaky woman who always seems to be spinning her wheels, complaining about all there is to do.

A few weeks ago, I had dinner with an old friend and he asked me what I do all day. I was completely stumped. I could have lied and said I write, but it's been so long since I've done any serious writing, I've lost track of the characters in my novel. This is not a good sign. I have days of spectacular productivity, days where I am so disgusted by the state of the apartment that I do everything at once: laundry, dishes, paperwork, grocery shopping, etc. I feel good about it afterwards, but then, rather than taking advantage of my freedom from household tedium to write, I reward myself by hanging out with friends, spending too much time online and, of course, blogging.

I'm realizing that waiting until my life is in order to get serious about writing doesn't encourage me to keep chaos at bay. Because I'm not one of those women anymore. I need to get comfortable with that fact, to learn that I can do what's necessary and let the rest wait. I need to make writing a bigger priority than worrying about unpacked boxes and unfolded laundry. In fact, writing should be at the top of the list, along with keeping Grace alive and nurturing relationships that nourish me and keep me sane. (Okay, almost sane.)

I've joined a writing group. We meet once a week to share our projects and provide/receive feedback. My objective was purely selfish: to light a fire under my ass that will help me finish my novel. But it turns out I've stumbled into a group of writers who are not only smart, fun and funny, they are also intimidatingly good at what they do. I've been inspired by what I've heard of their work, and I've received feedback on my novel that surprised me by its insight and, well, total awesomeness. I got lucky, and I'm going to take advantage of this chance, and challenge, to stay focused on writing and, I hope, make some great friends in the process.

The dishes are washed. The laundry is (mostly) done. Grace is happy and healthy and with her father for the next few days. I'm going to pretend to not notice the boxes stacked around the apartment, and the mess on my desk. (Except for Grace's kindergarten enrollment, which I need to complete and deliver to the school — which starts NEXT WEEK. Last-minute Laurel prevails!) Other than that, I'm going to plant my ass on the couch (which smells faintly of pee due to an ill-timed nap by Gigi), and get to know my characters again. I'm pretty excited about this.

My new mantra: I love to write. I love to write. I love to write.

Perspective, with a side of humility.

You know those emails that beg you to appreciate life by depicting starving children and war-torn countries? Usually, I find them patronizing and heavy-handed, and delete them without much thought. (Which is out of character for me, because I have made an art form of finding people worse off than I.) But I received one the other day that crawled under my skin, the images making their way to my heart and refusing to go away. Perhaps because my last post was so poor-me, or maybe because Grace has been crankier than usual, or possibly because I was still feeling sick and tired. For whatever reason, the message hit its target and resonated with me, and forced me to realized that my glass is WAY more than half full. (I know — who am I and what have I done with Laurel's body?)

My next post was going to be a rant about those who complain: about having to spend hundreds of dollars on unnecessary crap for their kids because Grandma and Grandpa won't pony up the cash, about having a fender bender in their gas-guzzling SUV and having to shell out $$$ for a deductible AND a rental, about being strapped by the mortgage on their vacation home, about not being able to find exactly the right pair of shoes for a party. (I have done several of the above.) But my heart isn't in it, because I realize it's all a matter of perspective. We all struggle; who decides what is a legitimate gripe and what is not?

One of the things I love about Portland is its lack of snobbery. When I lived in Chicago, almost all of my friends were college graduates who worked in advertising (yawn). When I moved to Portland, I realized that people here do what they need to do to make a living and spend the rest of their time pursuing passions: wind-surfing, mountain climbing, horseback riding, bicycling, animals and yes, writing. What a relief it was to just be myself and have a diverse group of friends who didn't judge one another based on their income. (Don't get me wrong, there is a faction in Portland that lives to go out at night and be fabulous; they are easy to avoid by not going to the Pearl District at night, particularly on weekends or the first Thursday of every month.)

The friend tree has had a few prunings over the years, most recently those who are social climbers and are unable to empathize with someone downwardly mobile (that would be me). And by social climber, I don't mean someone with money. One of my favorite people in the world has more money than all of my friends put together, but keeps it real. In fact, she says, "I love you" more than anyone I know, and means it. But friends who are more interested in the right neighborhoods and schools and social circles disappoint me, and bore me. I was a rung on the ladder, and am therefore no longer needed. (I'm not losing sleep over this.)

I have a home. I have a strange and wonderful nuclear family. I have friends who know what it means to struggle, and who have been so supportive over the last year, I don't know how I will ever repay them. I have enough savings to pay rent and fill my fridge with food (organic or not). And I have a passion, one so strong it makes me sorry for those who don't. It's time to get back to writing, to leave behind the inconsequential speed bumps that have slowed my progress, and keep my eye on the final destination.

Ultimately, it's time to focus on helping others again, something I used to do without a second thought but have failed to do even as others were helping me. If you have a moment, please visit this website, and if you are fortunate enough that you can help, please do so. Lisa has been my inspiration for months now (which would surely make her barf if the chemo hasn't already), and I can't imagine remaining so positively... positive in her situation. Also, when she's healthy, I plan to impose on her with a visit and a horseback ride, so the sooner, the better.

Oh — and for the record, I love you. All of you.

Letting go.

My last post reflects perfectly my state of mind at the time: muddled. In an attempt to gain some clarity, I took my first road trip since my accident; Grace and I drove to the coast to visit my parents. I was white-knuckled and tense the entire three-hour drive, and when we finally got there my muscles creaked when I climbed out of the car. (Grace was totally chill.)

I was hoping the fog might lift enough for me to connect with my mom and dad, but both my brain fog and the coastal fog were uncooperative, leaving us cooped up in the house most of the week, and a bit cranky. I was also supposed to do a book signing that didn't transpire, and my frustration about that didn't help my mood. I decided to come home earlier than planned, and that afternoon the clouds finally lifted and we saw the sun as we hit the road at dusk.

Something inside me lifted during the drive home, as well. I've been thinking about the illusion of control that generally gets me through the day, the idea that if I do things properly, I will be rewarded with success and happiness. That illusion was pretty well shattered last month, and I've been sort of unnerved ever since. I can drive safely and still get into an accident; I can parent to the best of my ability and still let Grace down; I can find a fantastic job and work hard but still get fired; I can take care of myself and still get sick; I can write a book and promote it like crazy but not sell it; I can try to reason with my psychotic neighbor regarding the land dispute and still wind up in a legal quagmire; I can love my friends and family but hurt them unintentionally. I could go on, but you get the point.

My personal injury lawyer, of all people, mentioned the serenity prayer during our first meeting. I'm not into organized religion, but I believe I'm a spiritual person. Regardless, the idea of accepting things I cannot change is somewhat foreign to me, and lately I've been too wiped to summon much courage for the things I need to change. I have two things working against me: I have some itty bitty control issues, and I struggle with chronic depression. So I tend to spin my wheels when crises arise. Rather than distinguish between what I should work on and what I should let go, I do exactly the opposite. I stew over things beyond my control and neglect my responsibilities. Pretty clever, right?

On my drive home, this tendency suddenly became clear to me, again, and left me feeling unusually peaceful. I'm not sure why I have so much trouble remembering to focus my energy on what is truly important; I suppose that whole pesky wisdom part still eludes me. But I'll be glancing at this prayer (originally a poem, by the way) often from now on, hoping to break old habits and find order in chaos, or just let go and enjoy.

Before and after.

I'm not really springing back into action post-accident. In fact, I am not at all myself, and my normal self isn't exactly an energetic little ray of sunshine to begin with. According to the Portland ER doc who saw me when I woke up disoriented, dizzy and unable to string a sentence together, this is common with head injuries, but as far as I'm concerned, it just sucks. On days when I take care of Grace, I struggle to find the energy to keep up with her, physically and mentally. She knows something's wrong. Brady knows something's wrong. Even the guy who gave me the rental car must have figured something was wrong, because it took him a full ten minutes to convince me that I wouldn't have to pay anything. I just couldn't comprehend the words coming out of his mouth, because I knew as soon as we stopped talking, I would have to climb behind the wheel of a car (an ivory PT Cruiser!) and drive home. I was actually shaking, and not with gleeful anticipation.

My life seems like a series of befores and afters. Before and after John and I split up; before and after last summer's health issues; before and after losing my job; before and after meeting Michael; before and after the ongoing legal issues with the house; before and after Grace was potty trained (yay, Grace!); before and after Max died; before and after the accident.

Could be the concussion, could be the chemical imbalance in my brain prevailing over my meds, could be that this last year has just been unusually stressful, but I'm having a really difficult time regaining my sense of who I am and what I should be doing. Taking care of Grace is draining, but I know what's expected of me; when she's not here, I'm adrift. Normally, I would write. In fact, I'm dying to get back to my novel. The hurdle? My laptop died, and when I sit down at my desktop computer to write, I feel like I'm working, and I don't want to feel that way about the one thing I love to do. I have nothing against working (my lack of employment notwithstanding); I just want to continue to experience writing as something that brings me joy and fulfillment and keeps me in the moment, endlessly. That may sound spoiled, but I'm funny that way. So tomorrow I will focus on one step at a time: get up, shower, bring desktop computer to The Mac Store, trade in for a laptop. The most challenging leg of this adventure will be the part where I have to shower. It still hurts, and I have to confront my cuts and bruises in the mirror.

On a positive note, think of all the water I'm saving by showering every other day. Also, I'm stationary quite a bit more since I've lost my mojo, which Brady loves. This dog wants nothing more than a warm body to lie on, and the occasional decomposing animal to eat. What would I do without my little family?

How do you choose what to read?

I infrequently read nonfiction, but I picked up A New Earth by Eckhart Tolle to inspire me this Memorial Day weekend. It felt appropriate, since we needn't reach any further back than yesterday to find three U.S. soldiers killed in combat. I honor those soldiers as much as veterans from WWI or Vietnam, but I can't help feeling we haven't learned nearly enough, as a nation or globally, to make the shift away from violence as a means of settling disputes. Yes, I know this is naive. But I'll be naive rather than cynical; hopeful rather than resigned; peaceful rather than combative for as long as I can remain so.

The fact that I own A New Earth started me thinking about how I decide what to read. I realized that I rely on a handful of friends who read voraciously and recommend books passionately. Book reviews don't move me to action and I don't pay attention to bestseller lists, although I generally know what "everyone is reading" the way some people know what everyone is wearing or where everyone is dining. But I will buy and read a book if Leslie, Justine, Jodi or Vicky clutch a hand to their heart and say, "You have to read this!" I have half a dozen or so beloved authors I follow, and I will sometimes make an impulsive purchase if I'm in a bookstore and something catches my eye. For the most part, however, my reading list is informed by my girls.

Word of mouth works for me as a reader. But as an author? Creating "buzz" is something that may forever elude me. And I wonder how the rest of you choose which books to cozy up with at night?

Back to work.

No, I haven't gotten a job, but author Cheryl Strayed quoted an L.A. Times essay on facebook, which made me realize it's time to dust off the laptop and get back to writing. The quote? "Failure is commonplace in the career of a writer, and a second novel is the beginning of a writer's career." That sounds about right. I love Soft Landing, but that second novel isn't going to write itself while I sit around wringing my hands about disappointing sales. I can keep loving my first baby while nurturing my second. I need to get back to that creative place where I find myself totally absorbed turning ideas into beautiful words. That's when I'm happiest.

If Soft Landing finds an audience, fantastic. But I've pushed so hard, for so much longer than it took me to write the book. I want to remember the writing, which was such a joy, instead of the selling, which has left me feeling empty. The positive feedback I've gotten has meant so much to me, but it doesn't bring the same satisfaction as finishing a sentence, a paragraph, a chapter. So on to child number two, and that crazy balancing act that comes with writing, parenting, working (one hopes) and just living.

Not quite making the grade.

A while ago I blogged about a dream I had where a favorite high school teacher gave me some excellent advice about deciding what was important to me, which played out nicely in my real life. Lately I've been having recurring dreams that I'm trying out for something — choir, the hockey team (?), a play, gymnastics — and that same teacher is standing on the sidelines, shaking his head in disappointment. I keep telling myself, "Focus, Laurie, focus" (I was Laurie in high school), but I'm devastated by the look on his face and I know I won't be making the cut. (This scenario is, of course, sandwiched between not knowing which locker is mine, not being able to find my car in the parking lot and not remembering where my dorm room is, which doesn't make any sense because it's high school, not college, so why can't I just go home? But where is home?)

Generally speaking, my dreams are not terribly subtle, and this one doesn't exactly have me scratching my head. While I no longer struggle to identify what's important, I'm not sure I'm doing such a great job of maintaining focus. When so many things go wrong at once, I can't help but stop and wonder if it's me, if I'm letting myself be distracted by things that seem important now but are really just easier to pay attention to. Grace, family, friends, my writing — these are my priorities. But Grace is the only one getting the best part of me, to the detriment of everything else. I haven't seen my family in ages; ditto for most friends. I continue half-heartedly plugging my novel, when the reality is that I've done what I can for now. It's time to set aside Soft Landing and start actually writing again. Not blogging, not farting around on facebook or sharing my questionable journalistic talents on Allvoices, but continuing the second novel I started over a year ago and am truly passionate about.

I also have a renewed interest in gardening. At first blush this feels like another easy distraction, but it's something I can share with family and friends. (Grace is all about getting her hands dirty and planting things, thanks to her time at her old daycare; she's even learning to enjoy bugs as long as they are OUTSIDE and she understands the roles they play, according to Laurel's Insect Philosophy.) And there is something calming about weeding, pruning, watering and deciding what to plant that allows me to be present, but also to look forward in a good way. The nurturing part of me could definitely use some repair; I spent much of the last year protecting myself, but to what end? I'm feeling alienated (not part of the team) and somewhat lost (where's my math class?), so it might be time to get back to basics and FOCUS. Isn't there a pill for that?

I'm going to bed now. Sweet dreams to you (both of you), and to me.

I got hate mail!

Well, a nasty comment, anyway. If I'm not mistaken, this is an important milestone in the blogosphere. It rates right up there with recent invitations I've received to contribute to allvoices.com, considering the fact that ANYONE CAN JOIN. I'm confused, and honored.

Hate mail is confusing because 1) most comments don't make sense and 2) why do people subject themselves to media they don't enjoy? I mean, what does "I take and I take..." mean and why is it so strange that my blog is about me? Also, I don't sit on my ass watching Bill O'Reilly on Fox News, ranting, "You're such an asshole!" And I'm honored that someone else actually has more time on their hands than I do to fart around online, probably from their desk at work, and has chosen to spend it judging my rantings. I actually ran that last post past a couple of people to make sure it was clear that I was joking. All I can suggest, not-so-gentle-reader, is don't read my blog, WHICH IS ALWAYS ALL ABOUT ME! (And a reminder that nothing is truly "anonymous" on the internet.)

Back in the real world, I had a great day yesterday visiting independent bookstores in Portland, talking to people who truly appreciate the written word. They took my misprints and press kits and asked if I might be interested in doing a reading, which blew me away because they were so friendly and open-minded and very, very Portland. I won't make any money, but it's nice to shoot the shit with geeky bookworms like myself.

Also, the family went to the park after dinner and Grace finally went down the winding, tubular slide that has so vexed her for over a year. The look on her face was priceless. Pride, radiating from a three-year-old who has conquered a fear, is indescribable.

No one to blame but myself. And everyone else.

Bright and early this morning I received 25 copies of the final version of my novel, the version I approved for expanded distribution worldwide. I had received a proof a week or so ago and made a few minor corrections, including adding a necessary blank page to the title pages. Unfortunately, that threw the entire book out of whack, causing every chapter to begin on the left-hand page instead of on the right. (This is not good.) I was in a hurry to get on with the book promotion so I could sell lots of books and, you know, abandon this pesky business of looking for a real job. A costly mistake, it turns out, unless someone would like to host a "discounted misprint signing party" so I can recoup my losses and maintain a sense of humor about what happens when the meds start gaining on the OCD streak in me.

Which brings me to my current downward mood swing, which I attribute largely to lackluster sales. Despite all the positive feedback I've gotten from readers and my tireless efforts at self-promotion, I would be embarrassed to admit how few books have actually sold. I knew this would be a slow, frustrating process, but OH MY GOD. So in order for me to sleep tonight and be able to get up and look myself in the mirror tomorrow morning, I feel the need to place blame where blame is due. I don't mean to be indelicate and I certainly don't want anyone to take this the wrong way, but you people disappoint me. I give and I give, right? I entertain, free of charge, by sharing the gory details of my soap opera of a life. And so I beg you, for the love of God, quit reading my blog and go convince someone to buy my book. Consider it your good deed for the day.

Feeling a little used.

Powell's is a Portland institution, occupying an entire city block and hailing themselves "the largest independent used and new bookstore in the world..." who carries "an extensive collection of out of print rare, and technical titles..." blah blah blah. Every time I mention I've written a novel, I am asked some variation of, "So is it for sale at Powell's?" And everyone assumes I will eventually be doing a book signing at Powell's, since they are so beloved locally and one assumes the feeling is mutual. They have a section devoted to debut authors; another category comprises local authors.

I have Powell's to thank for one book sale: the copy I dropped off with my press kit wound up on Amazon.com for sale by Powell's as "used" — and below retail price. I had visited the store twice hoping to be granted an audience with their purchaser, and left several messages regarding my novel. Nothing. This hurts. As a local, debut author, I guess I expected at least the courtesy of a return phone call or a, "You're wasting your time" heads up from the person who took my information. Instead, they discarded my blood, sweat and tears (oh, the drama), making almost entirely profit. I get nothing but the satisfaction of knowing that at least someone bought it.

I knew this kind of crap happens with booksellers, reviewers and other media, but POWELL'S? Yuck. I guess I have one thing in my favor: when Soft Landing is finally available through wholesalers, I'll be able to revisit the great and powerful Oz at Powell's and let him know they've already sold out of my novel once.

My brush with media greatness.

I appeared on this morning's KATU AM Northwest, our local ABC affiliate's morning show. This six-minute segment took WEEKS of phone calls, emails, planning and preparation. The woman talking about child abuse agreed to appear on the show with me to provide some credibility so that I could shamelessly promote Soft Landing. Fortunately, she got a bit more air time than I did, because her message was more important than mine, and I may have pissed myself if they had asked me one more question. I'm sure there are countless reasons people choose to become writers; I'm fairly certain that those reasons DO NOT include a fondness for public speaking. But doesn't my hair look great?

I just want to be a mom, write and have people read my books. Is that so wrong?

There has been so much stress engulfing me and my family lately, part of me quite frequently wonders, "What the fuck?" The hassle of moving again. The legal bullshit that is delaying the sale of the house (although I will say this: that prick next door got in way over his head — we've got a kickass lawyer). My ongoing unemployment and resulting financial panic. Watching as Grace tries to adapt to yet another huge change in her life, without quite so much resiliency this time (heartbreaking). And the real sucker punch, my father's back pain turning out to be a broken vertebra that will require risky surgery. I confess to more than a few afternoons finding me curled up in bed, sleeping in order to tune out my world.

Normally, I would search for perspective in the problems facing the rest of the world: the more serious economic crises of other families; the earthquake in Italy; the shootings in New York; Michelle Obama hugging Queen Elizabeth (the horror). But it's not working for me anymore. To the contrary, it adds credence to the question that gnaws at me more and more lately: what's the point?

I used to find excitement in drama. I worried that if I ever found happiness or, more precisely, contentment, that I would be bored. But right now I would give anything in the world to be bored. I long for a predictable daily routine, one that doesn't have me constantly bouncing from one crisis to the next, never able to completely extinguish any one fire, always feeling as though I should be doing something else. It's draining, and I'm not much fun to be around. (Also, I tend to skip showers when I'm stressed, so I neither look nor smell very appealing.)

I know what I want to be doing. I want to have the luxury of time to promote Soft Landing without feeling guilty, to continue working on my second novel, and to curl up on the couch every night to watch a movie we've seen so many times we can recite the dialogue (The Secret Garden; The Neverending Story; The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe; The Little Princess, Over the Hedge). Weekends at the playground and the dog park. Friends over for a barbecue in our adorable little backyard. Driving to my parents' without worrying about paying for gas. Just your basic, boring old American dream.

I love to write. It's the only time I truly feel that I'm doing my work, making my contribution. I want Soft Landing to succeed because I love the feeling I get when someone tells me how much they enjoyed reading it. It's not money or even validation I crave; it's the knowledge that something I've created has made an impact on another human being. To everyone who has taken the time to tell me how much they loved the book, THANK YOU! Please keep your fingers crossed that one of my upcoming publicity efforts will hit, or that word of mouth alone will help Soft Landing find a larger audience.

Then I'll be able to obsess over the fact that among four-year-olds, one in five is obese.

A man handed me money for my book.

I've been blogged out lately, mostly because if I had written anything it would have gone something like, "Still no job, waiting for the book to start selling, gotta unload the house, poor me, blah blah blah." In my defense, this is my bitching blog, but at a certain point even I get tired of my whining. (Tangent: a friend told me that a relative of hers, who doesn't know me but reads my blog, was surprised at how angry I seemed in some of my posts, which cracked me up. If I sound pissed off, it's because LIFE IS DIFFICULT FOR ME RIGHT NOW. I apologize if I'm bringing you down, but Kelly Ripa I am not.)

Anyway, the house sold after two days on the market, full price, closing March 31st. Yay! I don't even have to make another mortgage payment, assuming all goes according to plan (knock on wood). Now my most pressing challenge is to find an apartment to rent even though I have no income. Baby steps.

But just now, something truly blog-worthy happened. I've been schlepping all over Portland convincing bookstores to take a few copies of Soft Landing on consignment, which has been surprisingly easy. I've also been chasing individual sales, actually reminding people that they promised to buy my book, and hey, did you get it yet? I feel like a dirty whore, frankly — until someone calls or emails saying they couldn't put the book down and how could I make them miss American Idol last night? Then it's all worth it and I have a glimmer of hope that things might happen on a larger scale. BUT, and this is a big but, I was just on my way out of a store after doing my spiel, when a man called out, "How much does it cost?" I had to think about that for a minute, because it's $17.95 (expensive for a paperback) and I didn't want him to laugh at me, but I also wondered where he was going with it. So I told him, and he pulled out his wallet, handed me a twenty and took a book DIRECTLY FROM ME. While I fumbled making change (20 - 17.95 = 2.05, right?), he explained that he liked supporting people who write. How fucking cool is that? I thanked him about six times, and walked out of there grinning like an idiot. I believe that no matter what happens in the next months (or years), that will always remain my favorite sale.

Regarding that last post...

After fielding several phone calls from friends making sure I wasn't referring to them, let me say this: if you read my blog and care enough to call, YOU ARE NOT A FRINGE FRIEND! In fact, I love you all. So there.

Our final round of mediation was yesterday, and this morning I slammed my forehead on the edge of the dining room table while cleaning up after Grace's breakfast. When I removed the ice pack and asked "It's not bleeding, is it?", I saw a look on Michael's face that I can't quite describe. What does this have to do with the divorce? For starters, the head wound was more pleasant than yesterday's meeting. More disturbing is the fact that I probably could have used a stitch or two but didn't even consider going to the ER because I can't afford it. Divorcing a man on whom I was financially dependent, during a recession and a longer-than-expected period of unemployment, and watching my savings dwindle away while I make mortgage payments on a house I will clearly need to sell as soon as possible JUST ISN'T FUN ANYMORE. But for some reason I ended up laughing more than usual today (possibly the blow to the head), and I can't wait to get through this transition and see what's waiting for me on the other side. I'm done with limbo; it's been almost a year. I want to settle down and have a nice, normal, boring life.

To that end, I plan to become a bestselling author, since no one appears to need a finance manager or software developer, or even an overqualified administrative assistant. So let me direct your attention to the upper left corner and make a suggestion: buy my book, love it, and tell everyone you know about it. I'll be launching a full-on publicity blitz in the next couple of weeks, so keep your fingers crossed for me — and in the meantime, give me your money! I promise you won't be disappointed.

New and improved

Thanks to an old high school friend, Jeff Strauss, and a buddy of his at work, my book cover has been vastly improved. (Go ahead, judge the whole book by it!)

That's the nifty thing about asking for help — sometimes people surprise me by going out of their way to do something nice just because. I'm not crazy about asking for help; in fact, it makes me so uncomfortable I usually just don't. My experience with this book project hasn't done much to change that, mostly because I've gotten responses that run the gamut from people completely ignoring my requests, to those who are downright rude, or barely civil, or kind but too busy, or grudgingly helpful — to that wonderful species who are genuinely pleased to do a favor for someone they don't know or haven't seen in years. It's possible the latter outnumber the former, and I hope I've let them know how much I appreciate their help, support and encouragement, and that I'll have the presence of mind to do the same for others if given the opportunity. (Although, in all honesty, if I ever find great success as an author, I'm pretty sure it won't take long for me to forget the little people. What? I kid.)

I'm pushing for an early February release. I'll keep you posted.

Coming soon...