Rejecting Rejection

How are you at handling rejection? Not great? Yeah, same here.

Sucky as it is, rejection is a wallop to the tum tum that we all have to deal with every so often. And it's not even unique to the human experience. If you're of an age as I am, you may remember tuning into Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom just in time to see the elderly chimp blackballed by the young douchebags of the clan and banished to a thirsty prune grove on a remote savannah. Thank God Jim Fowler was there to wrestle the old guy to the ground, stuff him in a helicopter and take him to LA to live out his life in Fowler's backyard, with occasional day trips to Burbank for Tonight Show appearances.

I think most of us learn rejection early. It could be the second-grade recess friend triangle that exposes us to our first experience of getthefuckoutofhereism, or that time in third grade when friends 1 through 5 get invited to Jeffrey Johnson's birthday party, while we weigh in at number 6. 

In junior high, I can remember rejection as being more commonplace than smelly jeans. Dances were the worst, especially for the girls. It was the '70s and Victorian rules still applied, meaning boys asked girls to dance. It was the rare seventh grade girl who asked a boy and an even rarer one who danced with another girl. Because of this, it wasn't uncommon for a girl to show up dressed in something really nice that she'd planned and prepared for weeks, only to stand around the whole time and go home danceless. Awful, and even though it wouldn't exactly have been Prince Charming to the rescue, I regret not having the  gumption to take more action than I did.

Rejection can feel so personal. How do you know it really isn't about you? I suppose one way is to reject rejection itself, like a certain citrus-skinned assface who wears red ties that hang down to his Huggy-draped taint.* In his case it's more rejection denial than election denial.

*Please see Blogger user agreement which requires one sick Trump fry per post.

I've been a graphic designer for 33 years, a job where rejection is a necessary component of the creative culling process. Is it possible that I may have been a little sensey-poo in those early days, maybe even referring to myself as a fake designer on occasion? 'Tis. But over the years, I've become hardened. A rough shell has formed around my ego, a fragile membrane covering the molten ball of resentment that will surely bubble to the surface when I uncup that mouse for the last time. 

But there's another category of rejection that I really wanted to talk about. It's the kind where you start with the old tabula rasa and go from there. Throughout the past ten years I've been writing and revising two middle grade novels—stories with an intended reader of ten to fourteen years old, but really meant for anyone. 

The first one is Ben's Fall. Set in the late summer, early autumn of 1975, Ben’s Fall is the tale of twelve-year-old Ben Lacey. Already anxious about his impending entry into the “big time” of junior high school, Ben’s stress is further compounded by his alcoholic father who constantly demeans his son’s lack of initiative and manliness. While Ben’s mother futilely attempts to protect him from his dad’s emotional abuse, Ben’s only true refuges is at the home of his closest confidant, Joel, and Joel’s single father, Bruce.

When school begins and Ben is thrust into a sea of older kids, girls and more worldly influences, his feelings of inadequacy only worsen. In the midst of his desperation to fit in, “cool kid” Lonnie Comstock befriends Ben and rescues him from an embarrassing incident in the boys’ restroom. Feeling both indebted to and accepted by Jake, Ben agrees to engage in an illegal after-school activity that he hopes may ultimately prove his worth to his father. It could also result in his dream bike: a Schwinn Fastback Five-Speed Stingray.

Each of Ben’s ill-fated decisions further stretch the distance between him and Joel, yet he’s now become blinded by Jake’s charisma and manipulation. When tragedy strikes, Ben is faced with some painful decisions to win back Joel. But is it too late?

The other middle grade novel is Against the Edge. Set in contemporary Seattle, it's the story of eleven-year-old fifth grader, Theo Cloverdale. Theo is reluctantly thrust into a relationship with Nathan, a classmate with special needs. The two boys are paired as partners for a class field trip to Seattle’s Olympic Sculpture Park, located along the downtown waterfront. Theo's mother Katie attends as a chaperone.

When the class becomes distracted by Lucy, an unruly classmate, Nathan wanders off and is eventually corralled by Theo at the top of the hill. With the boys separated from the other students, a massive natural disaster strikes Elliott Bay. Most of the class is swept into the mayhem, including Katie, and all is witnessed by Theo. 

Despite his profound trauma, Theo acts heroically and his bravery wins him instant, if unwelcome, celebrity. With his mother and many classmates still missing, and faced with this newfound notoriety, Theo’s turmoil reaches a boiling point when an individual enters his life, poised to become his greatest ally—or worst enemy.

Those paragraphs are excerpts from query letters I wrote to perspective agents. Just for a little background info, literary agents have nearly exclusive access to publishers. Agents receive hundreds of queries per week from people like me and must wade through mountains of sample chapters and synopses in search of the next Hunger Games or Holes. Chances are microscopic that a rookie author can run the entire gauntlet, from blind querying to signing with an agent to penning a book deal to cracking open a pristine copy of a hardback copy. It's almost impossible, really.

Unless you're my sister, Ann. In 2009, on the strength of her debut novel, Also Known As Harper, she did just that, snagging an agent, who then marketed the story into a bidding war (or "auction," as it's called in that scenario) between two publishers. The result was a two-book deal with Henry Holt and Company. Around that time, she began encouraging me to consider writing a middle grade novel. Maybe I will, I thought, reverting to my four-year-old self. If she can do it, I can do it. How hard can it be?

Really, really hard, that's how hard. Ben's Fall received 61 rejections, while Against the Edge has now accumulated a whopping 328. Three agents requested full manuscripts of Ben's Fall and six asked for the whole enchilada of Against the Edge. Things have gotten close, just not over the top. Here are some of the kind yet heartbreaking breakup letters from agents who had requested the whole novel:

"Thank you for sending me AGAINST THE EDGE. Your writing is really gorgeous, and I love the pacific northwest backdrop. Unfortunately, while I loved your writing voice, I’m not confident I have the vision necessary to make this particular project stand out in the MG space. And so, I’ll have to pass."

"Hi Tim, I want you to know that I consider each project I receive very carefully, and while there is so much to love in your story, I found myself just not connecting to it as I would have wanted. BUT! Even though your project is not exactly what I’m looking for at the moment, I would definitely encourage you to keep trying… agents are subjective and we’re each looking for different things. I know your work is important to you and I'm absolutely grateful that you wrote to me."

"Hi Tim, I read AGAINST THE EDGE, and while I think you are a good writer, I found the subject matter a bit too terrifying for that age group. Sorry not to have a better reaction. I wish you the best of luck with your work."

Still another agent had a similar comment regarding the subject matter, but hey, kids don't get enough credit sometimes for the reading choices they make and how maturely they're able to handle "terrifying" subject matter. I've decided to keep things as they are.

After ten years of near hits and misses, I'm at a crossroads of sorts with these books. I'd love to share what I've done, whether it's through self-publishing or another option, but I'm kind of tired of shopping them around and I'm ready to move on. Since you've made it to the end of this diatribe, I'd appreciate your answer this question: Would you be interested in reading one or both books? Please be honest. 

I don't write to publish books. To me, that seems kind of sad and unfulfilling. I write because I love it and there are few things more incredible than getting into a "zone" where I actually enter the story. It's how I've always felt when I write here as well. Rejection has no place. This has been a long post, so thanks for making it all the way through.

The Top 11 Podcasts of All Time... ish

I got hooked on audio stories back in the '70s. During summer family road trips down I-90 to visit my grandma in Yakima, my dad would pop old 1940s radio serials into the post-production cassette player of our '76 Ford Granada.

Throughout these three-hour odysseys into the moonscape of eastern Washington, they were the only distraction from the triple-digit heat inside our un-air-conditioned, V-8 Family Truckster. While rolling down the windows may have seemed sensible, each broiling gust of desert fury only leeched the moisture more quickly from my concave, blistering nooks. Before long, hallucinations would ensue—maybe an overturned Mr. Pibb truck would materialize on the horizon, perhaps my brother would suddenly leap from the car and leave his stack of MAD magazines, thereby fulfilling my most scandalous of childhood wishes.

My dad had, and still has, a massive collection of old radio shows, so there was always an episode of The Shadow or Green Hornet or The Inner Sanctum to while away the time on any car trip longer than twelve minutes. They served as my first foray into the theater of the mind, engaging my brain at a deeper level and forcing me to paint the scenery internally.

It was a novel approach since, as a child of the TV generation, I already had a solid visual of what a superhero looked like:



As well as an arch villain:



But it was on these marathon car drives that I came to realize—audio storytelling could manufacture worlds that television and movies never could. Listening to an episode of Suspense, I'd find myself in a pitch-dark room as my pursuer's footsteps grew louder. I could smell his presence, could feel the clammy blasts of his maniacal panting.

Or, I could flip on our 19-inch, black and white Zenith and convince myself that Captain Kirk wasn't actually just fighting some dude wearing nothing but an athletic supporter and sixteen pounds of paper-mâché. Hello, Starship Enterprise? Barney called and said his grandpa wandered off again.



Due to the inherent 2D nature of TV, it's no surprise that audio storytelling has never completely disappeared since television invaded the scene 60 years ago. And now, with the proliferation of the podcasting platform, the demand for audible yarn spinnin' is healthier than ever. Over 700,000 podcast titles exist today, featuring more than 29 million episodes.

By the way, how long are we going to keep calling them "podcasts"? Does anyone actually still own an iPod? I guess we can add it to the growing list of antiquated terms. In other words, I don't want to sound like a broken record, so stay tuned.

A few popular NPR offerings predate podcasting by almost a decade, such as This American Life and StoryCorps. These broadcasts greased the skids for modern podcasting, proving that good storytelling isn't just about entertainment, it's about the human connection that occurs as a result. They helped illustrate that we don't want stories, we actually need them.

Anyway, after having resided nearly full-time in in Podlandia for the past couple of years, I'm excited to share some of my discoveries with you. You'll notice a decisive true-crime bent to this list, so if you're looking for gardening ideas or advice on how to hem your chihuahua's True Religion jorts, you may need to perpetrate your quest elsewhere. Without further blathering, here are my top ten podcasts:



11) The Dropout Elizabeth Holmes was the wiz kid founder of biotech company known as Theranos. She was the youngest self-made female billionaire in history and appeared to be on her way to revolutionizing the healthcare industry with one incredible invention. All of the necessary elements for a bestselling novel are front and center in this six-part series: money, lies, tragedy and a really strange thing that happened to Holmes' voice during her ascent, as told by people who'd known her before.



10) Over My Dead Body, Season 1 This nine-episode offering frustratingly illustrates how power and privilege can completely unhinge a murder investigation. You'll want to dislike the state of Florida more than you already do, which I know is impossible.



9) Slow Burn: Season 2: The Impeachment of Bill Clinton You may think you know the entire arc of the Clinton/Lewinski scandal of the mid-1990s, and I don't want to say you'd be wrong. You just wouldn't be right. In an era when relentless victim-shaming was overlooked in the face of national prosperity, even the most ardent of Clinton supporters may finally notice the big, ropy stain on his presidency.



8) WTF with Marc Maron: Episode 613: Barack Obama Marc Maron is one of the O.G. podcast pioneers. Since 2009, the stand-up comedian has hosted a cavalcade of celebrities in his makeshift Los Angeles garage studio. Episode 613 takes place during the middle of Obama's second term, when POTUS decides to drop by while in town. The interview provides a bittersweet time capsule of a far more serene period when the grown-ups were in charge.



7) Monster: Season 2: The Zodiac Killer One of our country's most notorious sprees of unsolved murders, the Zodiac killings proved supremely aggravating due to the criminal's mysterious cyphers and coded letters with which he taunted newspapers and law enforcement. I mean, not only was he a bad guy, he was also kind of a dick. Plus, the show is narrated by a guy named Payne Lindsey, which sounds like either a law firm or a promising WWE nemesis.



6) Sword and Scale While this show doesn't completely cross the line, it straddles it hard. And unless you're prepared to listen to the details of some of the most horrific crimes ever committed (and as luck would have it, I am), you'll want to give this one a high five and move on. If you dare linger, however, I would recommend Episode 33: Luka Magnotta, the tale of a man whose quest for social media celebrity turned him into one sick puppy. Oh, and a quick tip—make sure you haven't eaten any type of food for an hour or so prior to listening. Also, you probably won't want to eat for a while afterwards or visualize food or food substitutes.

A close second is Episode 79: The Craigslist Killer, where the de facto crime takes a backseat to the profound incompetence of a perpetrator who thought he was smarter than the cops. Most of the episode is filled with actual police interrogations where you bear witness to the step-by-step dismantling of a killer and his alibi. You won't be disappointed.



5) KNKX Sound Effect Okay, sure. I've told stories twice on Sound Effect (How A Dreaded Swimming Class Changed A 10 Year Old Boy's Life and How A Horrific Accident Tested A Young Man’s Resilience), but shameless plugs aside, it's a fascinating forum for showcasing local Seattle stories.



4) I, Survivor, Season 1 Co-hosted by two survivors of sexual assault, Jenna Brister and Wagatwe Wanjuki, each installment tells the story of someone who suffered severe trauma and how they dealt with it, both during and after the event. My favorite episode is Episode 3, entitled, Not today, møtherfucker, where a female jogger faces her worst nightmare at a seemingly innocuous public restroom. Please listen to this one.

3) True Crime All the Time: This one is a guilty pleasure. It's hosted by two guys in Ohio named Mike and Gibby. Their chemistry is something you can only experience listening two best friends talk about horrific crimes while intermittently slamming each other and making up stories about past youthful glory.  In my opinion, the gold standard is Episodes 100, 101: Ed Kemper. Again, it's probably not a good idea to heat up a double-pepperoni Hot Pocket prior to listening to it. Your delicious, savory pastry would be forever tattooed by a serial killer's twisted approach to mother/son relationships.

If you have a little spare time, listen to Episode 97, Drew Peterson. Sure, he was a total asshole/killer, but more importantly, at the end of the show, Mike and Gibby play a voicemail I left about growing up in Seattle during the Ted Bundy and Green River Killer rampages. Attention whooer am I? perhaps.



2) Armchair Expert with Dax Shepard Many of us recognize Shepard from shows such as Punk'd and Parenthood. Based on the roles he plays, he may seem like sort of a shallow, redneck lunkhead, but you'd be doing yourself a disservice not listening to the podcast he runs out of his garage attic. He touches on his struggles with addiction, self-esteem and dyslexia in such a candid way and with such great humor, it's impossible to not like the guy.

Notable episodes include Episode 1: Kirsten Bell (also his wife), Episode 12: Katie Couric (I didn't think I could love her any more than I already did, but as it turns out, I could), and Episode 57: Conan O'Brien (another dude whose amazing wit and personality came at a cost).

1) Heavyweight This one is my favorite. Jonathan Goldstein, formerly of This American Life, connects with people who have unresolved issues in their lives. Usually it's nothing huge, just a misunderstanding that happened in high school or a friend who suddenly dropped off the face of the earth. Goldstein finds a way to provide closure to these situations by bringing people together, often with hilarious, heart wrenching results. They're all really good, but the cream of the crop is Episode 16: Rob and Episode 21: Rachel.

If you've never listened to a podcast, they're usually the perfect duration a morning/evening commute, a robust dose of yard work or any 47-minute span you'd otherwise spend staring at your cat. Also, keep in mind that there are some pretty bad ones—either they've got poor audio quality or are just downright boring—so it feels great to run across one that really hits home. Hope you enjoy this list, and please send along your recommendations!

Self-esteem is not for losers.

I've been a graphic designer for nearly thirty years now. And while this work can be extremely satisfying, it's an arena where my personal decisions about font size, color and design are critiqued incessantly and the absence of feedback can be interpreted as a gleaming endorsement. Not a lot of rosy talk in this business.

The thing is, having grown up a portly, buck-toothed child of the Seventies, creative pursuits wouldn't seem to be a smart career choice given the fact that self-confidence didn't exactly ooze from my pores. In fact, I can remember giving myself two options for this second-grade head shot: either apply a thick coat of pancake makeup to mute the blinding shimmer of my elephantine incisors or stretch my top lip down over them and risk future profound nasolabial integrity. I apparently chose the latter:

So, yeah, the foundations of my self-esteem weren't quite anchored in the sturdiest of compost. 

Why then, after finally finding peace with the give and take of the creative process, would I pursue yet another endeavor prone to minimal success rates and chronic disappointment? Why in the name of Bonnie Tyler would I hazard a total eclipse of the heart by taking up middle grade novel writing?

F#ck if I know. 

They say it's about the journey anyway, yes? Writing should be enjoyable whether I reach my destination of a published novel, or not. The process is fun for sure, but after receiving my ninth full manuscript rejection this morning, I've circled back to the simple, four-word answer in the previous paragraph to explain why I'm subjecting myself to this nonsense.

My emotions and self-talk upon receiving rejections have become comfortably predictable: I'm not good enough. I'm not talented enough. I don't work hard enough. The subject matter and plot arc aren't compelling enough. Then comes the name calling: I'm a hack, a failure, a waster of the most important of human assets—time.

This pity party for one lasted a good half an hour this morning, until I berated myself with another colorful moniker and forced my brain to break free of this familiar, toxic cycle. Googling the simple phrase, how to improve self-esteem, I landed on a post written by a guy in Sweden named Henrik Edberg on his Positivity Blog, entitled, "How to improve your self-esteem: 12 powerful tips". I know there's no God in Google, but, hell, almost.

This guy Henrik doesn't know how much he helped a dude half a world away. Following are a few of his tips for taking your inner self-worth demons by the short hairs and tossing them to the wind like a freeway Marlboro butt. He lists twelve, but I'm only including my favorites.

Say stop to your inner critic. Literally, you should say the word "stop" to yourself and think of something else, like how many more days until the next season of A Handmaid's Tale.

Take a two-minute self-appreciation break. Hard not to think of Stuart Smalley from SNL here ("I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me."), but listing a few of your best qualities does fend off those beasts of doubt.

Do the right thing. It can be something small, like going to the gym or not judging people. I'll start with the gym; the other one is a bit unreasonable.

Handle mistakes and failures in a more positive way. Wait, what? I'd always thought that duct taping two Olde English 40s to my wrists and draining them before allowing myself the use of my hands seemed like a sensible option.

Be kinder towards other people. That's cool. Just depends on which people.

Stop falling into the comparison trap. As Stuart Smalley once said, "You're should-ing all over yourself." Seriously, with the prevalence of idyllic lifestyles and personal branding in today's social media, comparing myself to that dude from junior with a jet ski and sweet place on Lake Tapps is just plain unhealthy. I'll never be him or own his ferret pelt collection, so why try.

Spend more time with supportive people (and less time with destructive people). Got it. No more hanging out with my kids. JK. 

As I said earlier, there's a lot more to Mr. Edberg's advice, so I would definitely recommend his blog if you struggle like I do with self-esteem issues. And while those are some great tips, what's even nicer is having a place to talk about this stuff, so thanks.

Maya Angelou: Someone Who Knew Why.

I like to see the children say, 'I never thought of that before.' And I think, ‘I've got them!'"

-Maya Angelou

Here are some of her occupations: San Francisco’s first woman streetcar driver (at 16!), 17-year-old teen mom high school graduate, opera singer who toured Europe in the ‘50s, film director, civil rights activist…

…there’s so much more she did, too, like speaking six languages and performing in Broadway plays, but let’s talk about her poetry.

While she’s best known for I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, her biographical tale of growing up in the Jim Crow South, throughout her life she jotted down poems to distract herself from the trauma of childhood sexual abuse and racism. It was first published in 1983, but no one is really sure when Ms. Angelou first wrote “Caged Bird”:

…The free bird thinks of another breeze

and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees

and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn

and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams

his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream

his wings are clipped and his feet are tied

so he opens his throat to sing…

If you get a chance, do a little research on this woman. Seriously, this is one of the most amazing people to ever breathe oxygen. When the hell did she sleep?

Maya Angelou’s death made me remember how powerful poetry can be, how it hits a sweet spot in us not reachable by music or traditional prose. As good as a song may be, I tend to focus on the melody and lose the lyrics. I can immerse myself in a good novel, yet it doesn’t strike with the emotional cadence of poetry.

My friend Jame Richards took things a step further. In Three Rivers Rising, she recounts the 1889 Johnstown, Pennsylvania flood. After a dam fails and unleashes twenty million gallons of water on working- class Johnstown, the story unfolds from the perspectives of a wealthy teenage girl staying at the resort on the hill above harm’s way, and her forbidden boyfriend whose family resides in the valley below.

The subject matter alone is intriguing, but here’s the cool part—it's written in verse:

Celestia

…Father says he comes for the fishing,

but in truth he comes to keep an eye

on other businessmen.

I have never seen him hook

a worm or tie a fly.

I cannot imagine him gutting a fish

or scraping scales.

The only scales he knows

are for banking and shipping.

But his partners and rivals decided

it was time for fresh air,

exercise,

peace and quiet,

away from the filth and crowds of the city.

So, even at this pastoral lakeside resort,

my father will not miss

the glimmer of a business deal

spoken over rifles or fishing reels…

It's a craft that can veer in limitless directions. Ever read a poem by Charles Bukowski? The guy was no Hallmark Card, but man, could he hit a nerve:

…there is a place in the heart that

will never be filled

a space

and even during the

best moments

and

the

greatest

times

we will know it…

That’s an excerpt from No Hope for That. 

Thanks for making every day seem like Monday, Chuck. Remind me to look for that refrigerator magnet at your website.

Let’s end on a high note. I would be committing felonious balonyous if I didn’t hoist Theodore Suess Geisel to the top of the turtle stack.

Horton. The Grinch. The Lorax. The main dude in Green Eggs and Ham who never states his name or species. Dr. Suess is nothing short of my idol, crafting his made-up words and simple rhymes into lessons on morality, loyalty and positivity:

Today you are you,

That is truer than true.

There is no one alive

Who is youer than you.

If you haven’t read Oh, the Places You’ll Go, give it a gaze. And hey, since it is the season, the hardback edition is a great gift for that special graduate.

Today we celebrate the life of an extraordinary human, one who wasn't afraid to take a few chances. How about if we honor Ms. Angelou’s memory by venturing into the scrawling out of a poem or two. 

No big whoop; anything you want, even if the first line contains “Nantucket.” Let’s see what you’ve got.

Rest in peace, Maya Angelou. Here’s to the poets.

The Number One Loser Should Travel Well.

It is better to travel well than to arrive.   -The Buddha

I think if I were an Olympic athlete, I would rather come in last than win the silver. You know, you win the gold, you feel good. You win the bronze, you think, well, at least I got something. But you win that silver, that’s like congratulations, you almost won. Of all the losers, you came in first of that group.

You’re the number one loser.   -Jerry Seinfeld

It's so easy for we who inhabit American skin to be torn between those two philosophies, yes? 

On the one hand, we Yanks are all about winning. From Mormon Bar, California (I love the internet) to Shin Pond, Maine, we share a barbarous thirst for victory. 

And no, ties aren't acceptable either. Ties are either for parents trying to judge living room talent shows…or the French. We want a freaking winner and we'll go to extra innings or overtime or playoffs or Final Jeopardy to settle the joint. It's actually possible for a National Football League contest to end in a draw, but mostly because it's highly unlikely that enough players would remain unconcussed and of sound spleen after seventy-five minutes of gridiron butchery to determine a victor.

Sweet brother of Eli, that's why I loves me some football.

Anyway, that's not my point. For the past few days, I mean years, I mean decades, I've really struggled with the notion of goal setting. Have I achieved some lofty milestones? Hey, does the Pope have a girl's name?

I've won the neighborhood moss and dandelion growing competition five years running.

After exhaustive research, I discovered I'm the only member of my extended family to barf lime Jell-O.

In 1985, I ordered Domino's twenty-one times in one calendar month, a Lake City Way record which may outlast Joe DiMaggio's consecutive game hitting streak. 

The thing is, those are all inadvertent accomplishments, not the culmination of specific goals. The Minnesota Vikings have appeared in four Super Bowls as their conference's champions, yet haven't won the big one. The Buffalo Bills reached four consecutive Super Bowls and fell short each time. In the non-sporting realm, Robert Redford has never won an acting Oscar and Colby totally should have won Survivor, Season Two. Would any of these folks be considered failures for approaching greatness yet stopping one rung shy of the pinnacle?

Yeah, they would, based on the way our culture judges champions. 

I've been thinking about this a lot lately. Over the past six months, I've received no less than forty-four rejections from literary agents concerning my middle grade novel, and I'm starting to think maybe I'm approaching this whole book thing from the wrong perspective. I lecture myself quietly and constantly. It's about the joy of storytelling, the buzz that can only be obtained by putting pen to paper and scribbling so feverishly that I can't get it all down fast enough. When it's flowing, there are not agents or editors.

Don't get me wrong; I'd love to get this thing published. I think it's a solid book, one that could appeal to adults and kids alike. 

But I suspect my ego has been occupying the driver's seat of this Hummer, slamming its fist down on the horn and screaming bloody oaths at every vehicle blocking its way to the publishing house. I could choose jealousy and resentment. I could continue to cultivate my festering scorn by barking at a moon bathed in the reflections of those who have "succeeded," and further fertilize my field with the manure of grumpy old men.

I could definitely stick with the Seinfeld silver medal approach. 

Or I could just stop worrying and keep writing. 

Let's go with option number two.

Where's Gloria Gaynor When a Guy Needs a Hug?

Have you ever watched a movie, one that's based on a true story, and before it's even ended, thought, "Egads, I wonder what happened to those characters. What happened to all those actual dudes from the 1980 USA Olympic hockey team who were portrayed in Miracle?"

Thankfully, films about real-life events can't be followed by sequels, since people's lives don't work that way. It's not like that same hockey team could regroup twenty years later and stage a stunning defeat over the Hungarians in water polo.

Most of these movies get us up to date before the credits roll  plastering information across the screen like, "After scoring the winning goal against the Soviets and then defeating Sweden for the gold medal, Mike Eruzione settled in Duluth, Minnesota. He and his wife currently raise emus for pets and/or food. Believing that nothing could ever exceed the bliss he experienced in Lake Placid that winter, Eruzione lifts his hockey stick only once every year to bludgeon his prized emu for the Eruzione family Thanksgiving feast.

"Don't judge until you've savored the wonder of emu giblets."

Wow, how did I arrive there?

Anyway, I'd like to get you caught up on the events of a day I wrote about about six weeks ago. Presuming that you must be aching to know what happened with the same intensity as your concern for the Von Trapps as they scaled the Alps packing along nothing but a couple of acoustic guitars and a foxy new step mom, I'm here to ease your mind.

On June 12, about six weeks ago, three milestones transpired in our household:

My daughter graduated from high school.

Update: Her summer is going quite well, thanks. She's only got  fifty-eight days, eighteen hours and thirteen minutes left to play beach volleyball, admire her abs and guzzle massive goblets of Jamba Juice before starting college. I feel so bad for her, don't you? By the way, she still hates the words "moist" and "ointment," even after becoming an adult.

Our kitchen remodel was completed.

Update: Since then, we've painted a lot and slightly lamented our dark counter tops. Those things show more dirty rings than a Prince Albert piercing kiosk. We've sprinkled the rest of the house with sparkly new accouterments from Pier 1, IKEA, Target and maybe even a smidge of Craigslistishness.

I received an email from a literary agent asking for the full manuscript of my middle grade novel.

Update: I'd heard stories of writers persevering for years before getting an agent to fly into their empty mayo jar of hope, so I was really excited. Last Saturday night as I checked my email shortly before going to bed, this message sat into the old in-basket:

Dear Mr. Haywood:

Thank you for the opportunity to consider your work.

I read the pages you sent with interest. Unfortunately, after careful consideration, I have concluded that Ben's Fall is not a great fit for my list. Fiction, as I’m sure you know, is just about the toughest thing to sell in this very difficult market, and I am signing up projects very selectively in this category as a result. While the premise was intriguing, I'm afraid I didn't fall in love with the novel, so I wouldn't be the appropriate agent to represent it.

Best of luck in your search to find an agent and publisher.

Sincerely,

(Name redacted, but we'll call her "Agent-who-just-burst-my-dreams-like-bubble-wrap"—the kind with the larger bubbles).

Crap. I'd assumed, obviously incorrectly, that once she'd feasted her eyeballs on my masterpiece in its entirety, it was all over but the spell check. After she'd writhed on my roller coaster of joy, humor, angst and grief, I figured she'd say something like, "We're thinking we want to get you on a book tour as soon as possible. You don't get car sick in limos, right? It's funny, because Roald Dahl hurled all over my go-go boots once and after that I rode up with the driver."

Yeah, nope.

Oh, well. We don't write for fame and fortune, do we? Writing should be a passion, an itch that demands scratching on a daily basis, one that doesn't require validation from anyone but us.

I'm going to say that's somewhere around sixty percent true.

Really, it's totally cool. I've faced rejection more often than Kenny Rogers' face has been pulled with a sterile metal instrument. I've been broken up with, picked last at recess—hell, I once had a roommate whose girlfriend loved every rejection letter I received while looking for a job after college. She'd often walk into the living room, glance down at the torn letterhead and say, "Aw, did you get another rejection letter? That's too bad."

Schadenfreude much, you heinous she-wolf?

Here's a shot of me taken back in 1967. It was my sophomore year at Syracuse and my girlfriend happened to have her camera with her right after I was cut from the ultimate Frisbee team.

I held it together pretty well for this photo, but it was indeed a dark day in clammy upstate New York.

I will rise again. Like Nixon. Wait, not like Nixon, like Anthony Weiner. Wait, not like Anthony Weiner. Wait, I know...

I will rise again...like Brittany Spears. Yep, her.

Selling Myself to Myself.

Just curious—do you have a mantra? A credo? Perhaps some sort of slogan, tenet or delusional proscription to a paranoid manifesto?

You don't? Well this is awkward.

Ben Franklin had a million of them. Here's a little sampling:

"Three can keep a secret, if two of them are dead."
"A good conscience is a continual Christmas."
"Beware of the old doctor and the young barber."

Speaking of barbers, not too bad for a guy with the same hair style as the dudes who live in Winnebagos and take money at those go cart tracks that just appear in the Super Saver parking lot, then vanish after some kid named Lonnie separates his shoulder after slamming into a stack of old tires.

Anyway, other humorist/philosophers have imparted wisdom upon the masses through thought-provoking axioms. Of course there was Will Rogers and Mark Twain, and who can forget that great sage, Bill O'Reilly, whose enlightened contemplations produced the following creeds:

"Seven wrongs and two saliva-spraying threats make a right."
"A loud voice cultivates a bushy beard on the cheeks of stupidity."

I'm certainly not going to clump myself in with the aforementioned well-spoken Caucasians. I would, however, like to share with you a slogan to which I've clung over the years with more resolve than a black leather man bag brimming with pornography:

It's only a matter of time before everyone figures out what a fraud I am.

I know, it sounds a little dramatic; I'm not saying this phrase applies to all aspects of my life and personality.

Just the big stuff.

I graduated from college with an accounting degree. Following that, I even passed the CPA Exam, thanks to a solid review course combined with a nice Santerian ritual involving herbs and divination. Did such bona fides bolster my confidence for that first day on the job, the moment I slipped on those shiny Florsheims and green eye shade?

Nah. I figured two, maybe three weeks maximum, until someone woke the hell up and got rid of me.

Five years later, just as I'd convinced myself that, although I despised rising each morning to cinch up the Windsor noose and strap on the ten-key, maybe, just maybe, I didn't suck at accounting.

What better time to change careers? I returned to academia for the necessary tools to pursue a career in my lifelong passion—graphic design. Did I truly believe that my talents merited being hired and actually compensated with cash paper?

Nah. I figured two, maybe three weeks maximum, until someone woke the hell up and got rid of me.

And now, twenty years later, I'm feeling it again—the paranoia and the insecurity, the raw anxiety I haven't felt since the Internet was just a twinkle in Al Gore's eye. But I'm not talking about a career change, it's more of a life's endgame.

For the past two years, with both my sister's encouragement and her hours of editing expertise, I've been writing a book. It's a kids' novel, formally known as middle grade fiction. Back in 2009, when I first began scratching out blog posts, she suggested that I write a children's book. I thought, "Yeah, right. Like any kid would ever want to read a book written by, you know, me."

She badgered me relentlessly, hearkening back to a more innocent time when her badgering included a physical component, like a sneaky and well-placed kick to one of my growth plates. 

Finally, I wrote a single chapter, the big chapter where everything comes crashing down on the main character. A story solidified around that scene. While occasionally I'd write chronologically, I would more often tap out scenarios to be inserted at various junctures in the story. Eventually, a beginning, middle and ending stared back at me from the soothing blue and white hues of Microsoft Word. A draft was complete.

Holy shit, I thought, you just wrote a book. It took two years, but you just put an entire story down on paper. How did that happen?

This past weekend, I attended a writer's conference sponsored by the Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators. Prior to Saturday and Sunday's full slate of speakers and breakout sessions, I participated in two roundtable critique groups, where an actual agent listened as each of us read the first five hundred words of our stories.

I was terrified; it was like one of those dreams where I'm in a room full of people and I'm the only one who forgot to wear clothes. I'd come up with every single one of those half thousand words that were being lobbed into the critical air of the conference room.

It was the first time anyone other than my sister and I had heard a single sentence I'd written, and wouldn't you know it, who pulled up a chair next to me but that same destructive muse with that same tired message:

Eventually, they'll figure out you're a fraud. Give up now and forget about it.

It pissed me off that time, and I would have slugged that muse in the kidneys if he hadn't have actual been the same person occupying my skin. How can I be a fraud? This is my story and I'm the only person who can tell it. So, you know, shut up, muse ass.

Even though I've just topped off the gas tank, I haven't even turned the key on this long, frustrating journey. But once I get through the traffic lights and merge onto that freeway, I'm only stopping to pee and restock my beef jerky supply.

I'll call you when I get to Fresno.

How to Overcome Writer's Block by Not Writing.

Lo and begorrah. I haven't posted to this consarn log in nary a fortnight!

Sorry, sometimes I enjoy talking like Pa Ingalls—the real one, not the dashing yet sappy actor who left us far too soon.

It's been ten days. Jeez.

Don’t think it hasn't been bothering me, though. For the past week-and-a-half, I've stood here at the literary urinal with the worst case of stage fright ever, and not even visualizations of babbling brooks and waterfalls have primed the prose from my creative renal system.

Apparently, my muse needs Meuslix.

When I've not been able to summon a topic in the past, I've turned to the pages of the newspaper for inspiration, where I can typically extract a nugget or two of lampoonable material from the day's headlines. But with the Boston tragedy still so raw, the atmosphere is not unlike the aftermath of September 11, where the premature use of humor seems almost ignorant  and patronizing to the human suffering.

In the days leading up to Monday's horrific events, North Korea's newly anointed divine psychopath, Kim Jun Eun, had been dominating the media's face time. I'd decided to learn more about the struggles of the North Korean people and read a book entitled, Escape From Camp 14. It's the story of a man who, after having spent his first twenty-three years in a North Korean labor camp, escaped to China, then on to South Korea and the United States. 

While I endorse this account co-authored by Washington Post journalist Blaine Harden, I wouldn't recommend reading it if you aren't prepared to encounter gruesome stories of a nation's institutionalized brutality on its own people over the past sixty years. Truly chilling.

So, yeah, like many of the world's with even a light dusting of compassion, I've been in a downright funk. And when you pen a blog that attempts to keep things buoyant, you tend to feel as if there are some pretty heavy issues that supersede your airy blatherings.

This morning, however, a new hypothesis needled its way into my medulla oblongata:

What if I'm done? Tapped? Sapped of my pedantical chi? Perhaps I've failed to acknowledge that my mental pantry holds only finite supply of ideas, much like the earth's helium stores which are slated to expire sometime around 2043.

Maybe it's time to come to terms with it. After all, who wants to make Shake 'n' Bake with pork chops that expired last Tuesday?

Think of all the ill-advised artistic follow-up works which litter the pop culture cemetery:

After recording the classic Frampton Comes Alive, Peter Frampton probably should have named the next album, Sorry, Dead Again. Or how about all the ill-fated spin-off shows, like  Joanie Loves Chachi?  Let's just say it's a good thing she loved him, because every one else wanted to strangle him with his own freaking mullet.

I don't want to be end up like Jack Tripper in Three's a Crowd or Joey in, well, Joey. Hey, if the tank is dry, there's no shame, which is why I tearfully bid you farewell, loyal readers.

Just kidding. I've got a prostate exam coming up. Who else can I tell about it?