As if Monday mornings aren’t challenging enough, this particular Monday required me to appear at the Cook County Courthouse at 9:00 am. It was another steamy day, already 87 degrees, and a crash on the Kennedy slowed traffic to a snail’s pace. The SpotHero parking I paid for in advance turned out to be on Lower Wacker Drive instead of Upper Wacker Drive, which caused me to drive a little like Steve McQueen in Bullitt.
First, let me thank you for taking a moment from your busy schedule to read today’s blog. You probably didn’t block this out in your daily planner.
I know all about planning. This time of year it takes the nimbleness and precision of a juggler to make sure graduation, summer camps, school parties and barbecues, vacation plans, etc. don’t fall from the calendar.
I made a mistake.
I was contacted by a guy in California who wanted his book edited. He asked me to do three sample pages before making a decision about whether to hire me. Sure, I said. After I sent them to him, he emailed to say that he’d found an error. He didn’t say where, and I couldn’t find it, but I felt chastised and embarrassed.
My plan today was to write about how much fun it’s been meeting fellow She Writes Press authors. There are just over 300, seventeen who live in Chicago. In the last few weeks, I’ve been to two book release events and a social gathering where I’ve reveled in having nerdy author conversations about everything from galley proofs to audiobook technology to stage fright—conversations that, like all good ones, translate to many different life experiences. I wanted to write about some “aha!” moments I’ve had because of these connections.
But that blog will have to wait.
Because when I climbed into my car to head to Michigan this morning for a visit with my mom, something else climbed in with me.
Sitting in a jazz club listening to a big band jam on Benny Goodman is hardly the moment I would expect to be thunderstruck with a life lesson.
I was catching my breath after dancing with a new partner. We started chatting and he asked how long I have been dancing.
“You obviously know what you’re doing,” he said.
In honor of Mother’s Day (and due to a very busy week), I decided to re-run this blog from last February. This is for anyone who needs to be reminded that you’re doing a helluva job.
These days, being a mother requires the memory of an elephant—and the thick skin of one too. Thanks to a recent scene with my 15-year-old son, I won’t soon forget that most of us are simply lumbering our way through parenthood, and life.
Book Release of ‘The Buddha at My Table’
Women and Children First Bookstore
5233 N. Clark
Chicago, IL 60640
October 26 @ 7:30 p.m.
I’m an April baby. And I’ve always thought spring is a great time for a birthday. Who wouldn’t want to come bursting into the world accompanied by birds chirping and flowers blooming?
I think of spring as a time of renewed energy, purpose, and possibility. It’s a time to get moving again after the impatient, closed-in feeling I get as winter winds down.
I’m at the coffee shop, head down over my laptop, wearing a look of concentration that makes everyone around me think I’m being productive when, in fact, I’m berating myself for my absent-mindedness.
I left the house without my cell phone and had to drive back to get it. It was already an hour past when I meant to leave and I have no idea where that hour went. As I got back in the car for the second time in ten minutes, I looked in the rearview mirror and chided myself.
You sure are spacey.
It’s been a long-time dream of mine to have a team of people supporting my publishing career. Maybe it’s common to every writer who spends years down the rabbit hole churning out words that may never be read. The idea of having someone else believe in you enough to say “let’s share this with the world” has got to be the best feeling ever.
I’m about to find out.
👉 Enjoy dedicated writing space just steps from Lake Michigan
👉 Benefit from one-on-one developmental editing sessions