Memoir

All posts in the Memoir category

On celebrating myself (but in a less grandiose manner than Walt Whitman).

Published February 28, 2019 by mandileighbean

My whole life, or at least that’s the way it seems, I’ve been desperate for love. All I want, and all I have ever wanted, is to be loved. I think that’s why I allow myself to constantly be used and mistreated because I believe that in order for people to love me, I have to give them whatever they ask for. But that’s not love. I don’t think I really know what love is. I don’t love myself; if I did, I wouldn’t let people use me and I would understand that I still have value even if others don’t think so. I surround myself, mostly, with people who temporarily need me, thinking it will grow into some kind of permanence but unfortunately, it rarely does.

If I really loved myself, I wouldn’t always assume there’s something wrong with me and try to take the blame when things fall apart. Why is it so hard for me to consider that I’m not always the bad guy? It is a real possibility that people out there are mean, plain and simple. If not mean, then self-serving. I have never been like that, and I don’t think it’s the worst thing if I start to be a little more self-interested.

My plan for this week’s entry was to talk about how I celebrate when my book is completed. But when I sat down to write this out, I realized I don’t really celebrate when I finish a manuscript, although to be fair, I’ve only done this twice so far. I feel all this pressure to revise and send it out to agents, like it doesn’t count as “completed” until it’s published. In typing that last sentence, I realize that’s an effect of my somewhat toxic “all or nothing” mentality. I should start celebrating the completion of drafts and manuscripts. I should get my nails done and go shopping – self-care is always a good idea. And I need ideas other than food; I’m too much of an emotional eater and no good has come from it. I’ve been on a diet and exercise plan and have had a rough two weeks of it: the week before last I only lost 2 ounces, and this week I gained 3 pounds. If I’m honest with myself, that last result shouldn’t be a surprise. I mean, I moved way less and cheated on my diet on 5 out of 7 days of the week. I get so frustrated with myself because if I have the willpower and the stamina to write novel, why can’t I have the same dedication to taking care of myself? Or to love myself?

So yeah; I will celebrate when my next book is completed by taking care of myself.
What about my fellow writers out there? What do you do to celebrate when you finish a book?

Tips for Better Self-Care:

  • Know your worth!
    As evidenced by the content of this post, I’m making a concerted effort to highlight the better parts of myself. But I’m also careful not to ignore the parts that need work. I just need to be patient with myself because, as I need to remind myself, I love myself.
  • A healthy work-life balance.
    Two years ago, I stopped taking work home with me on the weekends. I also stopped staying later than what was contractually mandated (barring extenuating circumstances). It helped me start to navigate away from that toxic “all or nothing” mentality I referenced earlier; my life is not all work and nothing else, and it is not all play and nothing else. I’m managing a healthy balance.
  • Stress management!
    THIS IS SO IMPORTANT! A few years ago, I was getting debilitating migraines that attacked my speech and vision and memory. There were like small strokes, and I went to see a neurologist. When the scans came back clean, the neurologist explained I was suffering from complex migraines that were brought on by stress! I started exercising more and limiting caffeine and writing more. I’m proud to say I haven’t had an episode in over a year.
  • Start living, stop existing!!
    I’m still working on this one. I’m making a resolution, right here and now, to have adventures, even if I have to go solo.
  • Better physical health!
    … and I’m still working on this one.

And here are Ten Tips for Happier Living:
1. Go for a run or a light jog.
I’m working up to this; I’m walking two miles every other day. When I feel up to it, I’ll start lightly jogging. 
2. Meditate or do deep breathing for five minutes.
3. Take a break when you need it.
4. Choose who you spend time with.
5. Laugh heartily at least once a day.
6. Eat green daily.
I’m working up to this; I’m doing a lot of research about the Mediterranean Diet.
7. Avoid emotional eating!!
I emphasized this one because I STRUGGLE to avoid emotional eating.
8. Start a journal.
Check and check! I have TONS.
9. Learn to say “No.”
I’m working on this one, too.
10. Stop overthinking.
So difficult for me! I think this might be an occupational hazard for many writers, so I researched ways to stop overthinking:
Notice when you’re thinking too much.
Acknowledge these thoughts are not productive.
Challenge your thoughts.
Acknowledge that your thoughts may be exaggeratedly negative.
Keep the focus on active problem-solving.
Look for solutions, don’t dwell on problems.
Schedule time for reflection.
20 minutes of “thinking time”
Practice mindfulness.

But how does one practice mindfulness?
Take a seat
Set a time limit
Notice your body
Feel your breath
Notice when your mind has wandered
Be kind to your wandering mind

I hope these tips prove beneficial for other writers up there who are trying to improve their respective head spaces. And once I finish this current project, I’ll invite you all to my celebration, I promise.

self-care

On why I write and how I am going to be a better reader.

Published February 15, 2019 by mandileighbean

Full disclosure: before you read this entry, I think you should know I’ve been listening to two songs on repeat. One is “I Hope You’re Happy” by Blue October, and the other is “Cherry” by Moose Blood. I’ll let the reader decide if the looming holiday has anything to do with my musical inclinations as of late.

On another note, I just found chocolate icing in my hair. It must be Valentine’s Day.

I was young, but I’ve never really been irresponsible, and I think I regret that. I worry that it shows, that I’ve never really been free and uninhibited. I worry that it makes me boring and predictable and safe. I also worry it influences what I write, like how all of my first drafts are wildly melodramatic. I always do the responsible thing and revise, but is that guarding my art? Am I dumbing it down too much? Or am I just overthinking?

Why do I write?

Maybe all writing is juvenile – at least at its most basic level – because all it really is, is wish fulfillment, simply a continuous retelling, or re-imagining, of a specific moment in time the author cannot move past. Aren’t all writers, at the hearts of their respective stories, all writing about the same thing, hence why all writers borrow and share? Or maybe I’m only talking out of my ass because everything I’ve written lately has been all about someone in particular and our moment? In my defense, Stephen King’s wife once asked him how long he was going to write about his accident for, and he told her, “Until it’s behind me.” I like that answer. And while I do not believe that my “accident” is behind me, I can honestly say I feel better having finished my revisions on my manuscript, and his face no longer leers at me from between every line. I think it’s a fine story, and I’m hoping the five agents I’ve sent it to will have similar thoughts.

I’ve started outlining my next novel, and I’m eager to get down the nitty, gritty business of writing.

But then where does that leave this blog? Rather than pump out mediocre responses to Googled prompts on a bi-weekly basis, I thought I could approach entries with more direction and, as a result, more substance. Why not really delve into the writing life? Why not talk about how I’m becoming a better writer and share some wisdom? So in line with making serious moves as a writer, and in line with showing Stephen King some love, my literary idol once wrote, “If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot. There’s no way around these two things that I’m aware of, no shortcut.” He also wrote, “If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.” To put my money where my mouth is, I realize this blog needs to be about reading just as much as it is about writing.

Here are Twelve Tips for Being a Better Reader.

  1. Set a reading goal.
    I only read a handful of books throughout the year, but I KNOW I can do better. For 2019, my goal is to read 12 books a year, translating to a book a month. Seems doable, no?
  2. Make a list of books for each month.
    For this month, I need to finish The Dark Tower VII: The Dark Tower by Stephen King. Honestly, I’ve been reading it for like six months and I’m ready to move on (it’s a re-read anyway). So on tap is: I Feel Bad About My Neck (And Other Thoughts On Being a Woman) and I Remember Nothing (And Other Reflections) by Nora Ephron; Between Here and the Yellow Sea by Nic Pizzolatto; The Most Beautiful Woman in Town (& Other Stories) by Charles Bukowski; and Bridget Jones’s Diary by Helen Fielding.
  3. Read at least 10-20 pages a day.
    This seems extremely possible. To aid this endeavor, I’m always slowly working my way through an Edgar Allan Poe anthology so if I want to change it up, I could always read a short story or two.
  4. Set reading times and days.
    I always read before bed. Moving forward, I’m going to start reading during lunch and on Sundays. That way, if I miss my daily quota for pages, I can make them up in marathon sessions during the weekend.
  5. Get a reading partner/book club.
    I was part of a mildly successful book club through work. It fell apart, as some things are apt to do, but I’ve been seriously talking with a couple of colleagues about starting it back up. So if you can’t find one, start one. Or just reach out to a fellow bookworm and agree to talk about what you’re reading once a month. It doesn’t have to be all or nothing.
  6. Always carry a book.
    Hell, live a little; make it two.
  7. Find a quiet place.
    My bedroom is in a loft, so there’s plenty of space. I have a love seat up there and all these candles, and it has so much potential as a reading nook. Guess what my summer project will be.
  8. Reduce television/internet.
    I’m surprise by how difficult this is for me. I don’t watch a lot of television (but the new season of “True Detective” is AMAZING – just saying) but I am always scrolling through social media on my phone. I know all the hazards that accompany such behavior (depression, procrastination, envy and other such deadly sins) so I’m going to start making a concerted effort to limit the screen time.
  9. Keep a log.
    I LOVE GOODREADS.
  10. Go to used book stores.
    Not only are the books affordable, but there’s usually a particular type of atmosphere that really inspires and reassures. I’m going to aim to go to two book stores a month.
  11. Have a library day.
    FREE BOOKS! There’s a GREAT library by my house, so I have NO EXCUSE. Two Mondays a month, I’ll be in the stacks.
  12. Give it 50 pages.
    This one is difficult for me too. Like Alice on her infamous trip through Wonderland, I seldom take my own good advice. So many things in my life are all or nothing at all, to the point where if I start a book, I have to finish it. But I am wasting so much time! I’m embracing the 50 or bust rule IMMEDIATELY.

And while I’m reading? I live by three rules:

  • Highlight favorite/moving passages.
  • Make notes/remarks in the margins or on Post-it notes.
  • Actively read using annotations because those notes are an extension of me (as both reader and writer).

Happy reading, folks! Comment with your reading resolutions, and feel free to share recommendations! Better yet, find me on Goodreads. 😉

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On coming back.

Published January 24, 2019 by mandileighbean

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It’s been a year since my last blog post. I want to say I’ve been busy, and I have, but not in the romantic, adventurous ways I’d like. I was struggling with depression and losing the battle for a while. I had no inspiration, no motivation, no real reason to get up in the morning. There were some really awful nights where I sobbed until I couldn’t breathe, where I gorged myself until I couldn’t move, where I didn’t even leave my house to check the mail. I hated my existence and hated who I was – only the worst sort of person could allow herself to be such a fucking loser, I thought.

And the problem with writing, I realized, is that it is solitary and sedentary, making it NOT conducive to the my goals of being social and beautiful, but it remained vital to my survival; I have to write. So instead of blogging, I filled journals with scribbled self-loathing and only a few blips of creative expression.

But therapy helped; it really did. And so did attending The Writer’s Hotel writing conference in New York City in June of last year. I was inspired, invigorated! I met some truly amazing and talented people whom I still talk to. I got some much needed perspective and validation. As a result, I’m healthier than I’ve been in a long time, and I only have one more chapter to revise on my manuscript.

So I’m back, bitches! Here’s a prompt for your enjoyment.

01.2019: Stealing Sentences
     I opened up to a random page in Nic Pizzolatto’s collection of short stories, “Between Here and the Yellow Sea.” I chose the first sentence I saw, and wrote this little ditty.

She looked briefly at his art. “I don’t get it.”
Jay blinked. “What do you mean?” he asked in an accusatory tone, offended because he believed she was being intentionally obtuse.
Alison cocked her head to the left, trying to study the sculpture from a different angle. She narrowed her eyes and Jay remained breathless. When Alison sighed, Jay did too, disappointed and deflated. “What is it?” Alison asked.
“I can’t believe you can’t tell,” Jay growled. He gathered his sculpture delicately in his arms and headed for the door.
“Oh come on, Jay, it’s not that serious,” Alison pleaded as she followed close behind. As soon as the words escaped her mouth, she knew she had just made everything worse. Jay took his art super seriously and Alison knew that.
“I wasn’t looking for an in-depth critique or anything,” Jay said. He was struggling to open the door with his sculpture simultaneously nestled in his hands. “A little enthusiasm would have been nice, that’s all.”
Jay was avoiding eye contact, so Alison used the opportunity to roll her eyes. “I am always enthusiastic about everything you do. You just caught me on a bad day. I had an awful morning. I tried to make coffee without closing the lid on the coffee maker.”
“Fascinating,” Jay spat. His hand slipped against the doorknob. Alison reached over and opened the door for Jay. Neither moved for half a minute. Then Jay said, “I spent hours making this today. I was so proud of this sculpture and the first person I thought of to share my joy with was you. And you couldn’t even humor me.” With a wounded look that irritated Alison to no end, Jay marched himself out of Alison’s apartment and into the hallway. She slammed the door behind him, pissed at Jay for making her feel guilty. She didn’t really think he wanted to share joy with her. He wanted to praised for his artistic endeavor like some elementary school kid. He was a grown ass man who should be confident in his abilities and shouldn’t need any validation.
All the same, Alison supposed she could have asked questions and feigned interest, even if only for a few minutes, or until his excitement waned. She’d call later and apologize when she had more energy.
It really had been an awful morning."His work hovers between neo-realism, post-modernism and crap."

On misery.

Published January 30, 2018 by mandileighbean

I know I haven’t updated like I said I would, which is not really surprising.

At least I have excellent news to share.

I applied and was accepted to attend The Writer’s Hotel writing conference. It’s in Manhattan beginning in the first week of June. As part of attending the conference, my manuscript will be read twice and commented on. After talking with one of the editors for just fifteen minutes, I felt so validated and rejuvenated. This whole experience will help me better understand why my query is earning requests for my manuscript but my manuscript is being rejected.

In going back and reading my manuscript (which I foolishly neglected to do properly before sending it out), I realize my writing became impersonal. This is ironic considering the inspiration for the manuscript is incredibly personal. But I think I was too close to the story to accurately judge how I was telling it.

My parents are funding the conference, which is really and truly remarkable. Their generosity leaves me breathless. Honestly, I would be nowhere without them.

Next month, I find out where I stand regarding that contest I entered to try and turn my book HER BEAUTIFUL MONSTER into a movie. Wish me luck!

I’ve recently started attending therapy. I’ve only gone twice, but I think it might be helpful. I’m keeping and open mind and trying to stay positive.

I want to continuously make the conscious decision to be happy.

That being said, here’s a prompt about being miserable.

Stay gold, friends. And be excellent to each other. xoxo

 

WRITING PROMPT #02.2018: “Come with or stay at home. It’s your misery.”

Madison was not living her best life.

She was stretched out upon the old, lumpy couch that was covered in an itchy fabric that made her sweat. She was on her stomach with her head turned to the right so she could see the television.

Nothing interesting was on, just an endless stream of true crime documentaries that Madison had seen before.

Her mouth was hanging open stupidly. She couldn’t remember the last time she blinked, let alone moved. Madison was fairly confident she was resting on top of crumbs. She was mildly concerned she was even covered in crumbs, that she heard a faint crunch whenever she shifted to mold closer to the couch. couchpotatoAs a matter of fact, her mouth was shiny with grease from consuming an untold number of potato chips. She just kept crunching and chewing until the bag was empty. She flicked her eyes to the empty bag, which was resting on a stained and wobbly coffee table less than a foot away from her. The open end of the bag gaped at her like an open mouth, and she flicked her eyes to stare into the void.

She had never felt less motivated, had never felt so unattractive. Madison suspected that this was giving up.

Her roommate, Christine, came bounding down the stairs. Madison didn’t turn her head to see Christine, didn’t dare move to make eye contact. She had been festering on the couch for several days now, content to spoil like so much rotten meat. She could feel the best parts of her decomposing and believed she was powerless to stop it. Doing her best to be sympathetic, Christine had allowed Madison to eat food that was terrible for her, watch television that was mindless, stay in the same clothes, and just be disgusting. A heartbreak could be near impossible to bounce back from, and Madison’s foray into the disappointments of romance had been a doozy.

But enough was enough; there was a definite odor hanging about Madison now, something like pathetic despair. Madison couldn’t live like that and to be frank, Christine couldn’t live with someone who lived like that. If Christine were to move out, Madison would have absolutely no social interaction and would certainly decay at an accelerated rate. Madison probably envisioned herself as an Emily Dickinson type, a tragic albeit talented recluse, but Christine suspected the Unabomber was a better fit.

Christine walked over to where Madison was and kneeled before her friend, forcing her to make eye contact with a real human being and not some imagined individual on a screen. “Madison, get up. Get dressed. We’re going out.”

“I don’t want to,” Madison mumbled against the cushion she was doubling as a pillow.

“I don’t care. You can’t keep going on like this.”

Madison was silent.

“Do you think David is doing this? Just waiting around to die? No way. Come on now. Get up.”

Madison was unmoved.

Christine rolled her eyes. “Come with or stay at home. It’s your misery.”

Madison blinked stupidly and did not say anything.

Christine sighed and got to her feet. “I’m going to The Marvel Bar with some friends from work, and I am inviting you. I’m leaving in thirty minutes.” Christine did an about face to walk into the kitchen and make herself a pregame cocktail. She had only gone about four steps when Madison flopped over onto her back.

“Do you think David will be there?”

Anger boiled up from Christine’s stomach to color her face. She was about to spin around and scream at Madison so that spittle flew from the corners of her lips. How could David possibly matter? What Madison needed to focus on was herself, on getting happy, on being fit to be around other people. Christine wanted to shake Madison until Madison’s teeth clacked together, until Madison bit her tongue hard enough to make it bleed. There was no doubt that tough love was necessary, but Christine also realized that she had to get Madison out of the house. That in itself would be a victory.

So coolly, Christine turned around and said, “Probably.”

Madison bounded into the bathroom at an alarming speed, surprising for someone whose muscles must have been entering atrophy. Christine smiled and continued to the kitchen. She’d make two cocktails.

On still insisting to see the ghosts.

Published September 13, 2017 by mandileighbean

Hello all! Welcome to another edition of Writers’ Wednesdays!

And boy, do I have a story for you. It’s quite the story; so much so that I have decided to forego the weekly writing prompt to share this story.

School started up a week ago, so I’ve been busy. Mostly, I feel overwhelmed and exhausted just trying to keep up with all the demands, but I also know this is partly because I’m hormonal and partly because I’m recovering from the extreme lethargy of summer break. It appears that more than my muscles entered a nearly lethal state of atrophy. To escape all of that ugliness, I was really looking forward to seeing “IT,” the new adaptation of the Stephen King novel of the same name. Well, for all of those reasons and because it would be a welcome return to familiar territory.

Even only an occasional reader of this blog knows that I’m something of a Stephen King fanatic. I think he’s absolutely brilliant. I’ve read most of his work – even the writing under his pseudonym of Richard Bachman – and I’ve seen all of the adaptations; the good, the bad, and the ugly. I’ve seen him at readings at least three times and have traveled out of state to do so. Next to F. Scott Fitzgerald, he’s my favorite author. And of all his works, IT has a special place in my heart and has affected me in a very profound way. I remember finishing the monster of a novel (pun very much intended) with a stunning clarity. I remember I was on the way to one of my twin sister’s many athletic competitions at our local high school, practically dragged kicking and screaming to help watch our little brother who is ten years our junior. I was sitting in the last seat of this monstrosity of a vehicle (last pun, I promise), this huge, black van that I absolutely despised. It was roomy, it was comfortable, it was a logical purchase, but it had a television. That’s not a bad thing, unless you were like me: a fifteen-year-old girl who considered herself rather literary and therefore superior. In a silent, pointless protest, I would bring books in the van to avoid the television, which often blared to entertain the other passengers.

I was the worst fifteen-year-old.

On a particularly dreary day, on my way back to the high school against my will, I was in the van and I was reading. I was going to finish IT, and I did so sobbing. The story is so beautiful, and I wept with a palpable, pulsating kind of ache because I wanted so desperately to be an integral part of a team on an important mission. I wanted so badly to have a shared purpose who loved me so much they would die for me, people who weren’t family so loving me would be a choice, more of a conscious decision. I wanted a Losers Club. I wanted to make and keep a promise to be a hero. I wanted to be an adult who was still a child. In short, I wanted everything that was in the novel. I needed it to be real.

Until September 8th of this year, the best I could was re-watch a badly outdated miniseries (that I still cherish, just to be clear).

I was so excited for the new adaptation, I made plans with a friend to purchase tickets early for a fancy theater with reclining leather seats, massive screens, and speakers that boomed so loud you can feel their vibrations inside your chest. I was going to travel to a movie theater in Howell that I’d never been to, that had only opened a few years ago. I posted about the adaptation and my plans on social media for months. I can’t remember the last time I was so excited for a movie (if I had to guess, it’d be the last “Harry Potter” movie).

And the film did not disappoint. At the time of this post, I’ve already seen it twice. If you haven’t seen the movie, do yourself a favor and make plans to go and see the movie. Whether or not you’ve read the massive novel, the story is brilliantly told with great care. That being said, the movie is also incredibly disturbing. It effortlessly gets underneath your skin and catches you at random moments throughout the day. It stays with you, changes you.

When I left the theater, my stomach hurt from the anxiety. My muscles were sore from cramping and my mind was reeling. All I wanted to do was talk about what I had seen, purge the myriad of my emotions onto my companions, relive the film’s best moments. But once we left the theater, we were told we could not enter the lobby and could not even go past the podium where tickets were ripped for admission. We saw a line of employees, a kind of human barricade. It was unsettling and unnerving, even more so because we stumbled , blinking into the lights of reality from a nightmare of a film. We weren’t told why we couldn’t leave, but rumor among the large number of people leaving theaters and filling the hallway was that something was going on in the parking. We nervously shifted for about ten minutes before deciding to go the bathroom. The females in my group pressed through the tense crowd, doing our best to politely make a path, and happened to pass a female police officer. She was busily making her way through the crowd and was being asked for information at every turn. We heard her say that we were safe inside the building, and that if we wanted to be extra safe, we would move further down the hallway and away from the glass windows.

I swallowed hard. I could tell the other women in my group were nervous and upset, so I did my best to stay calm and lighthearted. All the same, we moved down the hallway.

We were inside the theater for about forty minutes. People were making themselves comfortable, plugging phone chargers into available outfits, sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall. People were preparing for a long haul, and why shouldn’t they? There was lack of information and our phones were dying one by one. Finally, an intimidatingly muscular police office got the crowd’s attention and said we could leave as long as we stayed behind him, proceeded in an orderly fashion, and kept our voice down.

My stomach flipped over.

We did as instructed, my friends and I holding onto each other as we followed the officer. He led us to the far end of the hallway and through a rear exit out the side of the building. We left the doors, trampled over gravel along a chain link fence and ended up in an adjacent parking lot. We were not allowed to go to our cars; the parking lot was being searched and the police had established a perimeter. We waited for another twenty minutes in the chilly night air, rehashing everything that had happened so far and asking for any news. I called my father just before my phone died and asked him to pick us up; we weren’t sure when we’d be allowed back in the cars.

We saw cop cars go speeding by.

My dad arrived just as the police began to let people return to their cars and leave. I still went home with my dad, still seeking some familiar comfort and not wanting to be alone (I never really want to be alone). Saying goodbye to my friends, I smiled and agreed that we’d have a hell of a story to share.

But when I got in my dad’s truck, I cried. I cried really hard because I had been so scared. There was the movie and then there was the reality, and I was scared of both, and I was scared that they could never be distinguished between, and I was tired.

The employee who ripped our tickets, who guided us to the theater, who I bantered with for a few brief moments, was arrested because he had an inert hand grenade, two handguns – one of which was loaded – and hollow-point ammunition in his car. A fellow employee told the manager something was wrong, and the manager called the police. One of the theaters had an off-duty cop just trying to relax and catch a flick.

Thank God for the police, and thank God no one was hurt.

Leave it to Stephen King to scar me in unpredictable ways.

 

On the problem with remembering things.

Published August 3, 2017 by mandileighbean

If you’ve been reading this blog, or even if it’s your first time ever reading this blog (let me be brutally honest here), you’re probably able to tell that I’m a bit of an idiot. Luckily, I’m a loveable idiot who does no real harm and my friends only feign impatience for comedic effect. For example, I thought today was Tuesday but it’s Wednesday. I’ve been posting on my social media outlets about my upcoming Writer’s Wednesday, trying to hype it up which has obviously been quite ineffective because today is Wednesday. Today is Writer’s Wednesday. It’s 11:51 pm on Writer’s Wednesday, and I am now just sitting down to write.

But at least I have interesting things to share (which may or may not be thinly veiled excuses as to why I am late in updating this beloved blog AGAIN).

Yesterday was an AWESOME day. I received TWO requests for more material (the first three chapters of my completed manuscript and the entire completed manuscript) from two literary agencies! It feels SO GOOD not to be rejected outright, regardless of whether or not something comes from these requests. It’s also nice to know my query letter is effective. Oh, The Charlotte Gusay Literary Agency (that I think I mentioned last time) wrote me to tell me they received my sample chapters, so hopefully I hear something from them soon. AND a perfect stranger commented on my blog with the sweetest, most inspirational, and wonderfully kind message about my writing and what it meant to her. What writer could ask for anything more?

I met some of the neighborhood kids yesterday. I was reading and writing on my back porch, and they were friendly. They kept stopping to say hello once they’d reached the top of these large mounds of dirt on their bikes right behind my house (they appeared out of nowhere, but I think there’s plans to build a house on the vacant lot behind mine) and could see me properly. I went inside to eat dinner, and the kids knocked on my door. They asked for water, but I didn’t have any water bottles, so I gave them cans of soda (at least they were diet, right? Unless that’s worse; it’s impossible to tell anymore). They were very polite and gracious and kept telling me how nice I was. From the mouths of babes, right? They came back for a third can of soda for another friend, and the one kid really wanted to ask me for a band aid – weird – but the supposedly injured kid was decidedly against it, either because he wasn’t cut or he was embarrassed. Either way, it felt good to be a good person. I remember reading on Facebook one time that it’s important to smile at and be kind to children because it helps them keep their faith in humanity.

I kept the good deeds rolling today; I spent five hours cleaning my grandma’s house from top to bottom. She passed away on the last Monday in June, and it really knocked me on my ass. I know death and grief has that effect on most people, but I really thought I was prepared. She had Alzheimer’s, so we all knew what was coming, but it’s still so … sad. It’s just sad. We have to liquidate all her assets to start executing the will, so we have to sell her house. All the furniture’s been emptied out and given to family in need, and gone are all her personal effects. My entrance into her home was marked by a melancholy echo. Everything reverberated in the empty space and I needed a few moments to catch my breath, to blink back tears. It was so surreal to see it vacant and unlived in, like all my memories of that house could be as easily removed from existence. I dusted and wiped and vacuumed and scrubbed and swept and scoured in that small, dark space for hours, literally eliminating any trace that my grandma – or anyone for that matter – had ever been there. What a strange concept.

My grandma’s home is in an adult retirement community. I feel like I should mention that to better explain why her house was small. Also, it’s dark because since her death, no one’s been in the home and bulbs burn out unnoticed. That’s all well and good, but while I was cleaning, a wicked thunder storm rolled through and made everything darker, my mood included.

At one point, I halted what I was doing and stood to stretch. My back and arms were sore from more cleaning than I’d ever done in my life. I looked out the window in the former dining room and saw sunlight streaming in my grandma’s backyard. There were splashes of sun on the formidable hill directly behind her house, visible through the window, but it was raining and I could hear the thunder in the distance as it crept closer, its growl low and menacing.

I couldn’t have invented a better metaphor. I guess that admission doesn’t bode well for this week’s blog post, eh? Well, it’s been a disaster from the start, honestly; I don’t even know what day it is. I hope you read and comment and share and enjoy anyway. I should mention that this week’s writing prompt proved very challenging. It tackles an exceedingly sensitive subject, and I did my best to keep that in mind throughout my writing.

WEEKLY WRITING PROMPT #5.2017: A woman is raped by her husband.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that humans do their best thinking in the shower. More than that, it’s scientific; being engaged in a mindless task (like shampooing and conditioning and sudsing up) in a relaxed environment (what’s more relaxing than a steamy shower?) sort of shuts down the brain’s prefrontal cortex, thus allowing the brain to consider creative and unconventional solutions to problems. Unfortunately for Chloe, her fingers were grossly wrinkled and the water was turning cold, but she still hadn’t been able to figure out why she was crying or why her stomach kept flipping over. She was seated on the shower floor directly under the showerhead with her knees pulled up to her chin and with her arms wrapped around her legs.

Chloe was trying to hold herself together.

She had started falling apart, had sunk into the pathetic posture of her current state, once she noticed the pinkish hue of the water circling the drain; blood. It was evidence something bad had happened last night.

It wasn’t the only evidence, either. The uneasy feeling exacerbated by the tiny rivers of previously dried blood that briefly streamed down her legs and arms had manifested when Chloe climbed from the bed exceedingly sore – even in places she didn’t know could ache – and undressed to find bruises. Dark, brutal-looking spots marred the skin on her thighs, upper arms, and chest. She ran trembling fingers over them, pressing to feel the pain, to make sure they were just what she thought they were.

Something bad had happened. The question was what.

Chloe’s reflection had given nothing away. Smeared makeup and puffy, swollen eyes were par for the course when she drank, and she had gotten loaded last night. She and Paul both had gotten loaded to celebrate … celebrate something Chloe couldn’t exactly recall, which meant it had been Paul’s affair, Paul’s idea. Had he been promoted? It was something predictable and clichéd like that, but they had gone overboard, partying like the newly rich, like they were young and dumb.

Chloe remembered stumbling into a blessedly empty ladies’ room in the thick of things. She staggered over to the sink, slow and stupid, and caught a glimpse of herself. She knew she needed to slow down, maybe something of a premonition of the bad thing to come. Naturally Chloe’s resolve completely dissipated when she returned to Paul, to their private party.

But she remembered saying no, and doing so firmly, loudly. Chloe remembered wanting to stop. Was that at the restaurant? At any one of the many bars that followed? In the car?

Chloe gasped. She remembered a fight in the bedroom. They had been fooling around on the bed, half in the bag and half undressed, and Chloe wanted to stop. It was like that when she drank. She’d suddenly have to put herself to bed or else the room would spin and she’s vomit. Chloe had tried to explain this to Paul, which was weird because her husband knew her inside and out and should be familiar with her warning signs, but Paul wouldn’t listen. Paul just wanted to keep feeling good and wasn’t taking no for an answer.

But that couldn’t be right. With the shuddering sobs passing through her bruised body, Chloe was trying to be rational. They were drunk and things got out of hand. Paul loved her and she loved Paul, and they were husband and wife, happily married.

People don’t rape the people they love. Husbands can’t rape their wives.

How could Chloe even think of the r-word? That wasn’t Paul; he was a good man and an amazing husband. He only got a little “handsy” when he drank.

But there was blood. And there were bruises. And Chloe had said no.

Chloe had been raped by her husband. And she was going to stay in the shower until she knew what that really meant or she drowned.

She was hoping for the latter.

11800-Crying-In-The-Shower

 

OH! And you should read A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby if you need to get out of an emotional funk or want to cry happy tears or both. The movie is just as fantastic.

 

On life-changing events.

Published March 20, 2017 by mandileighbean

I know it’s been a while since the last time I wrote, which is a phrase I use much too often to begin these posts. I promised myself I would make writing a priority and I haven’t. To paraphrase William Wordsworth, the world is too much with me. I let work and friends and television and social media and solitaire and invented melodramas take up much too much of my time, but that is all changing, slowly but surely. After all, they say you need to acknowledge and admit to having a problem before you can even begin to solve it.

It is a REAL tragedy writing hasn’t moved more into the forefront of my thoughts and ambitions and desires because that conference/workshop was truly life changing. It was a whirlwind of emotions, but I left feeling validated and prepared and motivated and determined. I mustn’t lose sight of that, or it will all be for nothing.

So today, I kicked my own ass running along the Barnegat Bay (good for body and soul) and am sitting down to properly update you all on that amazing, life-changing, soul-affirming trip to St. Augustine. The trip to Florida was relatively unremarkable; I left my parents house at about midnight (after only shutting my eyes for three hours before the 15-hour drive; I was too anxious, too excited, too eager) and essentially took I-95 all the way down. I passed A LOT of accidents, which I worried might be a bad omen, but I also drove by the Capitol Building, the Washington Monument, and the Pentagon, which I don’t think I’ve ever done despite my many years traveling up and down the Eastern seaboard. Once I arrived in St. Augustine and made it to the hotel, all of my fears were assuaged. I made it, and I had never felt so blessed in my life. It was stunning – absolutely breathtaking – gorgeous! There were so many boats out on the water – the weather was pretty much perfect the entire time I was in St. Augustine – and I could see the boats in the bay from the balcony outside my hotel room. It was impossible (well, almost) to tell the residents from the tourists because everyone was walking along the water in the sunshine. Handsome men were running shirtless, couples were taking leisurely strolls with cool beverages in hand. Such clichéd phrases don’t even do it justice, but they’re all I seem able to muster. I was – and still am – SO grateful, SO thrilled for the opportunity. It was AMAZING and I was continuously in AWE.

How did I ever come back to Jersey?

People in St. Augustine seemed – to me, anyway – to have MONEY – like Gatsby money, and I didn’t bring a laptop to a flipping writers’ workshop/conference (because I didn’t have one; couldn’t afford one). I momentarily felt like an utter moron, but I was okay. And the first thing I purchased with my tax return money was a laptop so I feel like EVEN MORE of a writer now.

Anyway, the first night in St. Augustine was marked by an informal, get-to-know-everyone-dinner. It was … interesting, tp say the VERY least. I went down to the hotel lobby around 7pm and sat outside and waited. Naturally, the others had gathered inside so when I awkwardly meandered in after creeping about the greenery, I met everyone.

Greg is a retired firefighter from the Midwest. Joanna published two novels twenty years ago, and has a house in Palm Beach and a house in the Hamptons. Paula was in medical communications but now she lives in Houston and I think she’s writing full time. Add me to the crew and we were the writers all staying at the hotel.

I instinctively liked Michael Neff, the editor. I hoped I made a good impression and toyed the line between desperate and casual, if such a line even exists. During dinner, I sat between Joanna and Noreene, who just flew in from the Grand Cayman Islands; completely chic and fabulous. I sat across from Doug from Cincinnati; he was hard to read at first, but shortly became one of my favorite people from the whole experience (he used to be a stand-up comedian and the last few days in St. Augustine, he made me laugh so hard, I cried and on top of that, he really is a phenomenal writer, so whatever. Maybe I’m mostly jealous; favorite might be too positive a word. But I’m just kidding. Maybe). Greg was across from me as was Literary Agent Paula (who I’m only referring to as such to differentiate her from Paula from Houston; don’t worry, I didn’t call her that or anything).

I LOVED Literary Agent Paula and on the first night, she gave me GREAT advice. I’ve subscribed to Publisher’s Marketplace, have decided to really focus on finding an agent, am endeavoring to attend more “pitch” conferences, and have decided to break away from Martin Sisters Publishing (the separation ended up being mutual … more on that later). But from listening to everyone talk about the conferences they’d been to and the important people they knew, I felt overwhelmed and realized I was greener than I thought. I was the youngest person there by decades. I knew I had the talent and the passion, but quickly began to understand that I needed the wisdom.

Cris is an author from California and Lunka is an aspiring writer with a full-time job (so we had a somewhat instant connection) from Denver; so cool.

So the next day (February 25th) marked the first REAL day of the conference/workshop. I was SCARED; I worked on my pitch for the novel I was currently working on (the title was stupid, so I’ll just call it The Duke Story [even though that’s also stupid]) the night before but still felt mostly nauseous. We met at a beautiful house right on the beach, and it was like something out of a movie or, even better, out of a dream. We sat in a circle and everyone read their pitches. It was so cool and interesting to see how everyone’s pitch matched their personality. I was really impressed with a couple of the stories, and everyone had something awesome to share … except me. At least that’s what it felt like, because my mood went from nauseated to dead when both Literary Agent Paula and Michael told me The Duke Story wasn’t marketable and encouraged me to work on “Don’t Drink the Water” (but that title is different now, too).

I felt deflated and was too wrapped up in my own shit to enjoy lunch at The Reef, but I did get to know Cris. When we returned to the house to wrap up the day’s session, Literary Agent Paula advised me to ask Hallie Ephron (ARE YOU KIDDING ME?) about the possibility of working on Her Beautiful Monster; Michael loved the title and wanted me to re-work it, but Literary Agent Paula was nervous because it had been published, has an ISBN number, and can easily be looked up … even though the publisher is so small it’s obscure. I felt lost and was happy to return to the hotel. Joanna drove Greg, Paula and me back to the hotel, but we stopped at Publix and the liquor store first. Paula and I needed some grocery items and we all needed booze after the first day. I happily joined them for the free happy hour at the hotel, and got to know Paula better. We sat on the porch swing outside of her room and talked a little bit about everything in our lives. Then I got to work on our assigned homework (identify five things that make our protagonist sympathetic, interesting, unique, etc. by showing, not telling). I used Charlotte from “Don’t Drink the Water” and did okay.

The second day (February 26th) was MUCH better for my ego, my soul, my passion. When I pitched “Don’t Drink the Water,” both Michael and Literary Agent Paula liked it. Then I went on to meet Robert Olen Butler and HE CHANGED MY LIFE. Throughout the course of our conversation, he validated my dream. He understood The Duke Story and my intention; he took the words right out of my mouth, the words I wished I had when I first pitched the story in front of everyone, and he told me he believed I could do it. I cried and hugged him. He is an amazing man and I will forever be indebted to him, no matter what comes of my so-called writing career.

After the conversation, I reworked my pitch and befriended Lunka. We had a spiritual connection as we were both really moved by our conversations with Robert and we exchanged numbers. I have a new writer friend 🙂 After the day’s schedule, Greg and I got dinner in downtown St. Augustine, and I drank and bonded with Joanna at the hotel’s happy hour. While we were there, we met HALLIE EPHRON. I tried to play it cool, but I was sweaty and I’m almost certain I mumbled and drooled instead of actually forming words. She couldn’t have been nicer. Michael brought her there to check her in and he stopped to say hello and encouraged me to do his online course after the workshop/conference. Spoiler alert: I definitely am.

The third day (February 27th) was INTENSE. The morning was actually low-key; we re-worked our pitches and shared our character traits of our protagonists. We all broke for lunch after, and I ate Chinese with Joanna, Paula and Greg. We shared a bottle of wine to calm ourselves because the second half of the day, we pitched our stories to Executive Editor Lyssa Keusch of HarperCollins Publishers (WHAT?! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!), Brendan Deneen of Macmillan Entertainment (IS THIS REAL LIFE?!), and Hallie Ephron, the New York Times Best Selling Author (SERIOUSLY?!?!). It was a whirlwind and while I didn’t feel 100% about the experience, it was SO informational and beneficial.

To commemorate our last full day together in St. Augustine, we had dinner together and it was AMAZING, GREAT, WONDERFUL! Joanna and I became as thick as thieves, Doug made me laugh, and Noreene was as sweet as she was fabulous. Joanna and Greg and I drank together back at the hotel and Joanna convinced Lyssa to join us. SO EPIC. SO AWESOME.

All that was scheduled for our very last day (February 28th) were individual consults with Michael Neff. After each consult, the writer left amidst heartfelt goodbyes. My consult was GREAT; Michael was so helpful and encouraging. I left the conference/workshop with a definite purpose and direction and really, what more can a writer ask for? I am in the middle of research, of signing up for the novel development online course, and am beginning writing very soon.

So when I returned to Jersey all fired up, I emailed Martin Sisters Publishing to inquire about my second novel, MOODY BLUE. I had signed a contract and sent it back, but that was back in the final month of 2016 and had heard nothing back. As it turns out, they had no intention of publishing my novel (said they “…couldn’t give it the attention it deserves”) and offered to send it to an even smaller online publisher.

I told them not to bother, but thanked them for everything. I emailed Literary Agent Paula, Michael, and have begun to query agents once again.

Here we go.

Below are links to Joanna’s website and Doug’s website.
JoannaElm.com
DougSpakWrites.com

And I’m sharing some pictures below.

Prompts start again next week … I promise!

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