I came, I saw, I signed

"Is this the real life?

Is this just fantasy?

Caught in a landslide

No escape from reality

Open your eyes

Look up to the skies and see"
---Freddy Mercury

So it happened, and went well enough. Do I dream of a line snaked around the block waiting for my book? Sure. But what actually happened is way more important. Good friends, a local independent book store, getting to chat with so many book lovers, that is what today was about. As it should be. Was I panicked last night? Definitely. That is the quintessential dilemma self-published authors face. Constant promotion going hand in hand with constant self-doubt. I signed up for it, I'm good, but it's hard sometimes. It's quite surreal. On the one hand, every writer dreams of being discovered by Oprah's book club and catapulting to fame and fortune. On the other it's enough to just realize that, Holy  fuck, you wrote a damn book! Who does that?

Writers do that. Not always well, not always on point, but we do that. And we keep doing it. It is is who we are. Our kids get it, hopefully significant others do as well, but that's often not the case. Still, everyday a writer writes. We cannot help it. For me, it comes naturally, if not coherently. What is mind-blowing is when you've managed to pound out a book, that is literally a body part you must then shop around and gain the approval of others for, well, then it gets dicey. I am so very grateful for friends, family and readers who continue to hold me up, support me and read what I write. "Is this the real life?" It sure isn't what I could have imagined, but for now, I will take it. 

OMG, Can I really do this?

“Above all else, deep in my soul, I'm a tough Irishwoman.”

---Maureen O’Hara

Irish I am, and Irish I will always be. No matter what, I have won the genetic lottery, having been gifted with red hair and green eyes and a wicked attitude. When I was little, my father told me that this hair and these eyes were proof that I was descended from the kings of Ireland.  The attitude was just a bonus.  While I would always be his princess, I was, by definition, a daughter of royalty, a daughter of Ireland and all that entailed. Also...attitude.

And yet, while we Irish are known for being as tough as nails, tonite I am in a puddle of self-doubt and worry. All of my own doing. The local bookstore, an institution of good literature and good authors, is having me in for a signing. Which is great and the culmination of a lot of work and promotion and pestering.  My gratitude for this opportunity knows no bounds. And then, in creeps the anxiety, doubt and worry. Because writing a book is much like having a baby. Except then you have to drag that baby around to strangers and ask them, “Is this a good baby?” “How did I do having this baby?” “Do you like this baby?” “Should I have more babies?” and all of that begs the question,  “Am I good enough?”

I have no idea if I am good enough, nor do I know how “good enough” is defined. I wrote this book. I hope you like it. If you don’t can we please keep that our little secret? If you do, buy a copy. Either way, I offer up my point of view. My experience. It isn't a book that tells you what life is. It's not a book that tells you want to do. It's just a book about what I have done. Right or wrong, good or bad, what life is or is not. How should I know what life is? Never would I be so bold as to tell anyone what life is, what parenting is, or what it's all supposed to be about.  Here is what worked for me. It's a chronicle of what has happened to me and how I have dealt with it. Hint: I’ve not always done so well dealing with everything that has landed on me. I talk about sinking or swimming. The motto “Fluctuat nec mergitur” comes to mind. It’s Latin, which every good Catholic knows a bit of and it means “Tossed but not sunken.” I have not sunk, nor will I, but I need help staying afloat. We all need that. Buy the book if you want, but if not? No worries.  Just spare me a good thought and wish me luck. Thanks. Maureen O'Hara remains an inspiration to me. Because. Irish girls. 

A Close call!

We've all waited for the UPS truck to come and bring that cool pair of shoes or the late-night eBay purchase, but this week I was sweating the truck big time. Sales are good for the book (yay!!) which meant I was almost out of copies. With a signing on Saturday of Thanksgiving weekend. No problem, I ordered books way ahead of time. Then I waited and waited and waited some more. Now some authors would just call up their agent, or publicist, or publishing house and get  it taken care of. Who does a self-published author call? None of those people, we don't have those people!

I got on the phone quick to CreateSpace, the self-publishing wing of Amazon. A really helpful guy named Albert actually tracked down the order and got it shipped on time, but as awesome as Albert is he cant control UPS. With a holiday in the middle of the week. Panic set in, daily offerings of prayer and bargaining and good thoughts from friends. Finally, on what was surely my UPS guy's last delivery of the day, my books arrived! Thank you Baby Jesus in the clouds! Thank you Albert from Createspace. Now come on by and get a copy, this weekend!

Keeping it Local

So, people say it's all about staying local. All politics is local, shop local, think globally, act locally etc. The communities we are part of are definitely part of us. It's an exchange of sorts, everyone puts in what they have and takes out what they need. Hopefully at the end of each day or week, it ends up fairly even. That neighbor that needs help shoveling snow and raking leaves might be the one that makes homemade pumpkin bread and choc. chip cookies. It's a marvelous give and take and we would all be poorer without it.

Social media is no exception. While it's hard to define the concept of local when you talk about the Twitterverse or the vast, some would say wasteland, of Facebook, I have been lucky enough to find a sense of community there as well as in my local area. A group of friends that I've known since my kids were wee babes, and AOL was the sum total of the information highway, is still part of my tribe, my posse, my go to gang of wise women and wise asses. Thank G*d for them. Local can definitely be extended to those we know but have never met, and those we have encountered only a handful of times but remain close to through the magic of the 'Net.

As a self-published author, community is everything. There is no publicist for my book, no marketing team, no name brand publishing giant putting me on a whirlwind book tour. There's me, my Twitter and Facebook accounts, local friends and a box of books I lug around in my car. Welcome to independent authorship. It's all good though, because I've met some of the nicest people doing this. There's a feeling of home and hearth when it turns out that the local bookstore is run by the child of someone who graduated in the same high school class as I did. When the gourmet grocery store that I treat myself to every now and then welcomes me with open arms and provides a book launch that was nothing short of epic. When badminton buddies, co-workers and neighborhood moms all pitch in to offer their advice, their expertise and their contacts to help me along the way.

And then, in the vast cyberspace of Twitter is a local businesswoman who has made it her mission to promote all things Marblehead and is generous with retweets and kind words. I do love me some good old fashioned local support. It means the world to me. Find your tribe, know your neighbors and reach out to others. You have something to offer them and they in turn will offer you something, I guarantee it.

Catching A Glimpse...

You know how when you're walking around, doing a little window shopping and you catch a glimpse of yourself and think "Oh Jeeeezuz" because maybe you think you're butt is too big or your jeans don't fit right? We are all so hard on ourselves. I've gotten to the point of not even looking anymore, of doing anything I can to NOT catch that glimpse. And then this happened. I've got a book signing scheduled next week and I went by the local bookstore on an errand. They have a big window and there I was, impossible to miss. Ugh.. right?  For the first time ever, what I saw made me cry. How did this happen? How did it get this far? I stood on the sidewalk like a damn fool and just couldn't believe it. Never did I think it would come to this. I had to take a picture. Perhaps that would be what I needed to realize it had truly come to this. Perhaps not quite critical mass, but something I never could have imagined. Believe me, after seeing this, I am going to do something, I am going to hit this hard and I hope that I will have friends along the way to cheer me on and keep me going. Because it finally hit home. This is what it's come to and I have to get at it and keep going.

TIME TO SINK OR SWIM! 

Please come! Saturday November 26th 11am. Spirit of '76 Bookstore  Hope to see you there!

Switching it up

I'm a badminton player and what I lack in skill I make up for in enthusiasm. This is my game, this is what I love. I lived most of my life hating sports, hating exercise and resenting anything that meant I had to sweat or put down my glass of wine. I am lucky that I found badminton as a sport and lucky that the club I am a part of has so many opportunities to play. Tonite was no exception. Every year at this time we have  Sadie Hawkins tournament, where the women must ask a man to play. In that spirit, everything is done in the opposite way of what is normally expected. Who doesn't love turning things upside down?

Normally, in badminton, when it's a mixed doubles game, the man plays in the back court and the woman plays "up" at the net. When it's Sadie Hawkins, all that is reversed. In order to score, the man must stay up. Indeed. True of so many things. This tournament is about fun, it's about switching it up and it's about punishment too. A man who fails to stay up will be chastised and made fun of.  But truly, it's all in good fun. I played tonite, and a lovely man and fellow club member was nice enough to say "YES" to playing with me. A good time was had by all and really, that is the point.

Change it up a little. Do something you don't normally do. Step outside the lines. Badminton is one way that I have been able to do that, but there are lots of opportunities to change it up. Turn things over. Flip the script and see what happens, but most of all enjoy. No matter what side you wind up on.

In my book I had this to say about badminton:

"I started with my game. I came late to finding a sport I loved, but badminton was it. The reason I took to it had to be because of the women who taught me how to play. They didn’t mind that I had no idea where to stand or how to keep score. It wasn’t a problem that most of the time I couldn’t get the bird over the net. They showed up every week and they gave me this game, they gave me something I’d never had before: a sport.

Were there embarrassing moments when I first started? Absolutely. The falling down thing didn’t just go away because I had a racket and a new pair of shoes. There is nothing like going for a smash at the net and winding up flat on your back on the court during your first tournament. It wasn’t all in my head, people were staring, and a few were laughing.  Just keep swimming? Sure, that helps when you’ve just gone ass over teakettle in front of a hundred or so people. The fact that I’d been down before though? That did help. Someone who has never failed or struggled isn’t someone who knows how to stay in the game."

Try something new. Switch it up, flip it over and do the opposite of what is the norm. It's a good way to stay afloat. Check out the book and find out more about going ass over teakettle and still staying above water. 

SINK OR SWIM

Coffee, Tea and Me

This week's column from the Marblehead Reporter, please share!

“Come let us have some tea and talk about happy things.”

---Chaim Potok

I’m a big fan of British television. From Monty Python (from which I can quote entire scenes) to Upstairs Downstairs, Downton Abbey, Dr. Who and anything else that involves the UK. Certainly 700 dead Irish Catholic relatives are spinning in their graves like rotisserie chickens, but it’s true. Anything involving the Royal Family, World War I, World War II, Churchill, London, phone boxes and silly sketches about parrots, Spam and coconut-clacking knights will always entertain me.

In any good British film or television program there have to be several scenes of characters having tea. It’s probably a rule, sent down from the Queen herself, via the BBC that tea shall be served early and often. Some think that the idea of a bunch of Brits sitting down to tea has to involve an elegant drawing room, a tea cart full of priceless china and an unobtrusive butler standing by to manage it all. That’s not it at all. Some of my favorite scenes in Downtown Abbey were the servants sitting down to tea at the end of the day or having a quick cuppa before the dinner service. It’s almost as if in some of these productions, tea is the great equalizer.

So, that’s how it goes on television, but what about the rest of us? The British might have their drawing rooms and servant’s halls, but we have Starbucks, and Java Sun and Atomic and of course the ever faithful Dunks. These places sell tea, but for most it’s about the liquid crack---coffee. I can’t start my day without it. Caffeine has been called the most abused drug in the country, and I’d have to agree. That first jumpstart in the morning from my coffee would be difficult to go without. Tea is different though.  If coffee is about speeding things up, tea is about slowing it down a little.

Think about it. Most people get their coffee to go. Order it ahead on a smartphone app and all you have to do is zip in and grab it. Hit the Dunkin’s drive-thru and you barely have to slow down to fuel up. There’s definitely a place for that, and I’ve been grateful for a roadside coffee stop more than once. Never once have I been disappointed by coffee, it never fails to be there when needed and it’s gotten many a job done. But…the sight of someone drinking out of a paper cup that has a wet and soggy tea tag hanging down the side will always seem a bit sad to me. Sure, we all have to get ten things done at once, so it’s become necessary to grab and go. It’s just that, like so much else in the world, tea was meant for better things.

A cup of tea should be shared with a friend. It’s meant to be lingered over. It’s not fuel to get you going, it’s more about helping you slow down. And who among us doesn’t need a bit of that?  On a shelf in my living room I have a little tin teapot. It’s stamped “Made in Ireland” on the bottom (as am I) and it’s one of my most prized possessions having been given to me by a friend with whom I have shared countless cups of tea. It was over those cups of tea that we held each other up in good times and not so good times. These little bits of tea and sympathy (and joy, sorrow and celebration) were sometimes the only way I didn’t go completely mad.

While I did not grow up in a manor house, or a castle, teatime was a staple when I was a kid. There were no servants bringing it, no delicately frosted little cakes and certainly no fine china. Everyday however, roughly around 4, everything would stop and my mother would put the kettle on. Sometimes the other moms on our street would stop in, other times it was just us, a couple of chipped mugs and whatever kind of cookies had been store-bought that week. It was a ritual of comfort and company that I intend to bring back in my house. It’s been far too long.

Tea isn’t just for British films. It’s for company and comfort, for friendship and family and most especially it’s for making time in the day for a small time out. The original pause button. With cookies, of course.