Vicarious Rising

Brick Walls

I'm going to paraphrase Randy Pausch, the late author of "The Last Lecture," who wrote that brick walls were not put in our way in order to stop us. They are put in our paths so that we can prove how badly we want something. The brick walls are to stop other people, those who don't want it as much as we do.

The recession has hit the publishing world much like it has hit everything else. Although people have not stopped reading, the ways they are reading has been affected. Smaller publishers have gone under, digital publishing is on the rise and long established authors are losing their publishing contracts. All-in-all, it is not the most favorable time to be getting into the book game as an unknown, particularly if I am writing a book that doesn't have HOME RUN written all over it.

In my last post, I didn't mean to make it seem like I was floundering around in what is wrong with my book. Not that there isn't plenty of room for improvement (there's always places to do better, and I hope to never stop learning), but by and large, I think the issue is timing and the fact that I am not trying to sell an obvious bestseller. In answer to some of the comments about showing the manuscript to published authors, etc., have done and also have more lined up to take a gander.

What strikes me as interesting about the rejections is that one person said to me that I should change the focus from a growth and redemption story to more of a mystery (er, no), another said alcoholism wasn't going to sell in today's market (um, to who? the actively alcoholic publishers who aren't keen on abstaining in an economic downturn?). Another said that this sort of story was absolutely saleable in this sort of market, she just didn't connect to the actual execution of my novel the way she thought she should (no snappy comeback... just *ouch*).

In other words, opinions are like....

Personally, I think this story, which is fiction rather than memoir, has a bigger market than most of the publishing world realizes. How compelling I've made the story is another question, but I think I've done a decent job. But I also believe that until I became part of the recovery community, I had no concept of how immense it is or how hungry I was for more information and relatable characters until I was there. Unless I am tapping into the right people, these agents I have been contacting might not understand that there are many of us out there looking for this sort of story.

Of course, I could be wrong.

To quote from literary agent Barbara Poelle's blog post on the state of the industry (and I have not queried her, in case you're wondering, and therefore is not guilty of any of the beforementioned rejections):

"No, really. Why am I eating my feelings and crying? Well, because last week, a colleague of mine was going out with a brilliant manuscript and was told by an editor, 'The writing is amazing, but amazing writing isn’t enough.'

AMAZING. WRITING. ISN’T. ENOUGH."

My mission is to figure out what sort of pretzel I need to twist myself into to make this process work for me. But one solution is not making this first novel into a friggin mystery. The fact is, this book is the only full-out recovery story I am likely to write. My other books have been suspense novels, and while I'm sure recovery will make cameos in one way or another in my books, this current manuscript is the book of my heart. I have other stories in me. If great writing isn't all that it takes to succeed, I damn well will figure out what else I need to do.

What it all comes down to is timing and whether I am ready to persist. That brick wall is not for me.

Good Rejection

I received a rejection letter from a pretty big deal agent today, someone I met at the conference I went to in April. She reps some major authors who I admire and we hit it off well. She requested the first 50 pages of my manuscript. Since I sent it to her, I have done some fairly major reworks of these pages, but even so, the older story version she received is substantially the same as my current improved one.

At any rate, she wrote me the nicest rejection letter I have received thus far. She said she found my characters highly sympathetic, my writing voice "distinct" and "accomplished" and the story strong. She simply didn't feel as connected to it as she felt she needed to in order to represent me.

So, I'm bummed, but I also don't feel like I am on the wrong track. I am, however, wondering about this general problem agents are having with connecting to the story. I think it may be in part because my dear protagonist is an alcoholic in recovery? I wonder if that is a difficult sell for someone who is not in recovery or doesn't have someone close to them in recovery. At least when it is not a sensationalistic story. Any thoughts?

How I Know I've Changed

My therapist is in his 70s and tells some old-fashioned corny jokes. I kind of like this. It's comforting. Maybe this is partly because my dad would tell off-color and inappropriate jokes. It always feels safe in the therapy room.

One of my doc's jokes goes like this:

How many psychologists does it take to change a lightbulb?

One. But the lightbulb really has to want to be changed.

I love this one. It is shorthand for how therapy works, when it works.

I've been up to my eyeballs in life in the best of ways. Every day I've done gardening and writing. Most days I've cooked a yummy, healthy dinner. My kid -- the little booger -- is finishing his last month of middle school. He also just got an A- in the sociology class he was taking at Skidmore college. My husband is reading my novel. I've never let him read anything of mine before. Weird, no?

The big eyeopener for me just hit me as I was reading an email from one of the authors I met last month. She had critiqued my first two chapters for me and I was glowing. Then it hit me: I had been asking for help. Oh, holy shit. I have actually been asking people for help.

Now, my problem with asking for help has not been so much about not wanting people to see that I don't have my shit together. It's really been about me thinking that I don't deserve a helping hand. With my writing, there has always been this sense of it not being good enough, and that showing it for criticism was letting someone re-write it for you. I wasn't thinking about it in terms of letting someone help me improve me.

Part of the change process has come from being a parent. Helping my son learn without doing for him is a tricky task, but I think I do a mindful job of it. But now I have to walk the talk. I believe I can do it now because I have made such huge shifts in how I think about myself.

I was pretty floored when I realized I was contacting people and saying, "Hey, would you be willing to help me out?" Like I actually think I am worthy.

Anyone out there in the early stages of recovery... stick it out. YOU are worth it.

The photo strip below isn't related to the above post, but I thought it funny. It does seem loosely related to my last post.

Martini Lunch

Ok. So, it's a mashed potato martini. Some gals here are calling them very dirty martinis.

Healthy.

The Promises - Short Form

If you become whole,
Everything will come to you.
~ Tao Te Ching

Will

This afternoon I ran into a friend of mine from my old home group. It was really great to see her and we exchanged a big hug. For whatever reason, she was one if those people that I was always pleased to see in the morning meetings. She thinks I am adorable, she makes me smile.

She's a sweetheart of a woman that I first met when she was newly sober and I had just moved to this town. I had about six months at the time and was pretty fragile. I didn't realize this woman was so new until she reached her first 90 days. I remember sitting next to her in a meeting when I spoke one if the very few times I did. The topic was powerlessness, and I said something about how that topic made me angry. Of course, this made the majority of the AAers smirk at me. My friend, who I don't know if she agreed with me or not, patted me on the hand (which she could see was shaking with fear for not only having spoken, but spoken in dissent) and whispered she was proud of me. I loved her to bits for that.

It's been ages since I've seen her, and the first thing she asked me about was my writing. This startled me because I rarely talked about my writing dreams, but I did mention them if anyone asked me what I wanted to do. I was so happy to be able to tell her how far I'd come since I'd last seen her.

My friend, on the other hand, reported that she was approaching a six month anniversary. Her most recent relapse had prompted her to go to a month long rehab - this after trying an outpatient rehab that still ended in another relapse, and other relapses before that. She told me that she is a person easily shamed, so the fact that she kept dragging herself back to meetings after so many relapses must mean she really wants sobriety.

My friend is someone who seemed to take to AA much more to the letter than I. If were to judge someone deserving, I'd say she beats me in that department. Obviously I don't know her inner story, but she works the program with her sponsor, is a nice lady in her 60s who simply just cannot let go of alcohol. I don't know why AA hasn't stuck for her. I hope it does for her this time. She seems so frustrated and desperate, like it's been the last straw over and over. I wish I could give her the secret, but I guess I don't know what's making her not let go of the bottle.

It sure was nice to see her, though.

The photo has nothing to do with the post. My son was having fun with dry ice.

Informal Poll

OK folks, how many of you would say you were relatively self-aware prior to getting sober? This does not mean that you were necessarily in the right or sane, just self-aware. What about shortly after stopping the drink?

I'd appreciate your responses. And any Al-Anon or non-program people are welcome to give their opinion too.

To put another spin on this, would you say you were completely unaware of yourself and your behaviors before working a program? Please explain.

Thanks!

Waiting for Spring

The always insightful Syd, who writes the blog I'm Just F.I.N.E. wrote a post on The Second Road yesterday about spiritual malady. In it, he listed what the AA Big Book tells us to look for to check the state of our spiritual wellbeing.

I remember early on in recovery that I hit quite a few of the items on that list, not the least of which were being restless and discontent, full of fear and feeling useless.

What was incredible was revisiting this list on Syd's post yesterday and realizing that those things no longer apply to me. Sure, I have moments of irritability or feeling control freakish (especially when I want the teenager to do something he doesn't want to do) But overall, it almost felt as if I were looking at the list for the first time. Because it described a stranger, not the me I am today. Hallelujia.

Insides Out

One thing that strikes me when I look at the photo of me on my wedding day is how happy I look. And I was truly happy that day and the entire weekend and week that followed. My two bad moments came courtesy my parents: 1) I asked them to watch our then 2-year-old the day of the event and said no matter what make sure he took a nap. The poor baby ended up screaming bloody murder at the end of the dinner, and only mommy could console him, so new husband and I could not go out dancing with our friends as planned (my parents and in laws offered to take the toddler in his agrieved state, saying, "he's not bothering us like this.". That wasn't the point. My baby was very unhappy.)

2) As I was getting dressed in my parents' hotel room, I told my parents that my father-in-law had paid for our wedding dinner as his gift to us. Our original plan had been for my husband and I to pay, as this was my second wedding and we were having a modest number of guests at 60. Big mistake to express my pleasure at this gift to my parents. My dad got all miffed and used the word "usurp" and dithered around angrily. It doesn't matter that they had no intention of paying themselves. And regardless, dude, keep your ire to yourself on your daughter's wedding day.

They did give us some money for our honeymoon, which we were very grateful for. I should note, the amount did not cover our trip, nor was it even a quarter of what the wedding dinner cost. I just don't get what the rage was all about -- except jealousy.

But I digress...

My joy on my wedding day is clear in all the photos, which are a stark contrast to those from my first wedding. In those, I look terrified and ready to flee. The only ones I look remotely comfortable in are the pictures with my grandparents and great aunts and uncles, most of whom have now passed. I am glad to have those photos, particularly since none if them were still around for my second marriage.

Another time photos tell a story of my inner turmoil was when I was on that trip to Australia in June of 2005. I look so miserable, like the jig was up and I was on the road to perdition. I avoided the camera most of the time, but my sister snapped several despite my protests. She had the nerve to send me a framed picture of me and her with some kangaroos in the background. The frame said something sentimental about sisters being born but now we were friends. She looks cute and delighted. I look bloated and resigned. I was angry she expected me to display this deformed version of me, felt like she wanted me to look so much worse than her in the comparison. I threw the damn thing out, frame and all.

I can't say yet if I regret that act.

I've noticed my willingness to be photographed has increased. I still am not excited at the prospect of getting my picture taken. But I am reasonably sure that whatever I look like, the look on my face will reflect the happiness I feel today.

Darwin Award Near Miss

A friend of mine, I'll call him Jake, stopped by tonight and we got to talking about a trip I am planning to Hawaii in late August. He asked me if I had ever been snorkeling, and I said I had: once in the Bahamas, once off St Thomas and once on the Great Barrier Reef just off Lizard Island. I told Jake the Great Barrier Reef was incredible except for the part when I thought I wasn't going to make it back to shore. Fortunately for me, my husband is a very strong swimmer, and he hauled my struggling ass back to safety.

Jake said, surely it wasn't that bad, and I disagreed, telling him that this trip was near the end of my tenure drinking and was to be something of a last hurrah. At that point I knew for certain I had a very big problem, but I wasn't ready to do anything about it. Certainly not on holiday with my husband, my sister and my best friend.

So, Jake laughed and said I must've had a pretty bad hangover. No, I disagreed, not exactly. Nor was I under the influence at the time. However, at this point in my drunk career my system was so fucked up, my blood pressure wasn't quite right. My doctor later explained the issue as something like my heart trying to do what my liver was failing to do with cleaning the toxins in my system. (if you're thinking, 'but your heart can't process alcohol,' you not only win the kewpie doll, but you are beginning to ken some of the problems going on in my poor ammonia stuffed blood).

I'm not sure what happened, but on that swim back, my heart started doing a really unnatural dance and I began to struggle with breathing. I felt like my body just suddenly wanted to quit. I thought I wasn't going to make it to land. And I thought that I was going to be swallowed whole by one of the giant clams on the ocean floor. Those suckers are scary huge.

Jake listened to all this with concern and said he was really glad it all turned out okay and that I'd figured out even before then I had a problem (that was sweet of him, but no brownie points for me cuz I was still not getting help). Then he asked if that was what I wanted on my gravestone - "Swallowed By a Giant Clam."

I laughed and told him it was way better than "Dumber than Dirt Dead Drunk."

It took me another four months after my Australian vacation to get enough courage to go to rehab. On the less stupid side, I did forgo any further snorkeling trips for the remaining time I was still partaking in booze. I'm kind of glad I missed the snorkel trip my best friend and husband took the next day on rough waters. Apparently my husband lost his breakfast in the water in the same current everyone had to swim back through. The group all got to know him and his granola much better that day.