Interesting things about apartment life

I've been living in an apartment for a year, after having owned my own home since 1986. Something that happened this morning made me think I should tabulate some of the things that make it an adventure.
Here goes. I'll add to the list over time.

• Thin walls with back-to back-bathrooms equals periodic synchronized peeing.
• Having skinny neighbors means there's always someone to climb through the small bathroom window if you lock yourself out.
• Passionate mid-night arguments from across the hall remind me to be grateful that those days are finally over.

Thing's I'm learning from car-free living

I thought it might be interesting to capture some experiences of life without a car. I'll add to the list as new things come up.

• Time is relative. When making a round trip bike ride on the same route, one direction may take 5 minutes, while the other may take 15.
• A terrier can smell the dog park from 1/2 a mile away.
• I doubt I'll be buying mega-sized packages of toilet paper for a while.
• Riding a bus is interesting.
• The first few times you ride a bike after not riding for a long time, you don't know how to get started, you don't know how well the breaks work, and you're afraid of cars. Be prepared to look like a dork.
• Walking in the rain is fun.

Day One

It is the first day of carlessness for some months to come.

I'm looking forward to it despite the skies being gray; imagining purposeful walks in the rain and sunlit bike rides. I wonder if I'd be panicing if it hadn't been by choice. Frightened of how to manage details like groceries and doctor's appointments.

But here, behind my laptop, starting the first day, I'm feeling nothing but anticipation of all the things to come. Money saved. Weight lost. Health improved. Creativity sparked. Life observed.

I'll keep you posted.

One Step Closer to Fanhood

I went to a ball park the other day. In the eyes of the world it would have been a historic game, if it weren't for the rain.

The park was Fenway. The teams were the Red Sox and the Yankees. The game would have been their first match in Fenway's 100th year.

I've never been a sports fan, so this wouldn't normally mean much to me.

But here I am, living in Massachusetts where the Sox logo shows up on everything from license plates to hats, from jackets to coffee mugs. The Sox are not so much team as hope, dream, and inspiration.

For most of my life, the closest professional sports team to home was the Buffalo Bills. I saw the blue and red Buffalo logo there, but it wasn't the same. Part of it is that I wasn't paying attention. Part of it is that New Englanders are different from Western New Yorkers. And part of it is that I didn't have exposure to the family lure, lore, and connection to a team.

Now I do.

DiDi's family is a Red Sox family. Her dad -loved- the Sox. Watching games together was a sacred time and space. She grew up associating the sport and the team with her father, with sharing. DiDi's beloved Nana lived in Massachusettes, which increased the draw. Her whole family are Sox fans. Her daughter is a Sox fan. Her nephews are Sox fans. Her sisters are Sox fans.

DiDi's 50th birthday was this past week. Her nephew and his lovely wife decided to surprise DiDi by visiting from Florida, bringing tickets for the Yankees game with them.

A few days before their arrival, Fenway televised its 100th anniversary celebration. DiDi watched it, and I caught bits and pieces while trying to hide the fact that I was preparing for guests. It was touching, even though I have no connection to the park. It was moving to see elderly players mixing with current, listening to stories, seeing the fans packing the stadium and hearing their cheers. I tried to get it.

On the day of the game, it rained. And rained. And rained. Our Florida visitors tried to be cheerful. It would have been the first time they'd been to Fenway, a bucket list item.

Not to mention the cost.

We decided to head down and tour the park, regardless of what was going to happen with the game.

And that's when I started to get it.

The city was soaked, rain falling harder than ever. The game was called. People in red and blue were everywhere, cracking jokes, bitching, heading into nearby restaurants and the gift shop. Fans of all ages, shapes and sizes.

We went on the tour, and I watched DiDi and her family as they passed by Ted Williams' red seat, gazed out from the top of the Green Monster, and looked at 100 years of balls, bats, and uniforms. I listened as they replayed moments from famous games.

At the end of the tour, a young man took the guide's microphone and made an announcement. He'd planned to handle it another way, during the game. But his plans were also rained out. His girlfriend walked up in tears, Red Sox cap perched atop her cute little head, and accepted the ring he offered. The rest of us burst into applause and cheers.

There was an amazing unity among those of us on the tour. We didn't know eachother, but were somehow kin. I expected it to be kitchy, and maybe it was.

I still can't call myself a fan. I was not born and raised to follow sports. But after this weekend, I'm one step closer to getting it.

A Book I Need to Write

I've come to realize that the reason there are so many generational sagas on library book shelves is not so much that people want to read them, as that people need to write them.

Lynne Hinton's painful story, The Arms of God brought me to this realization.

The book unwinds the intermingled stories of several generations of mothers and daughters. It starts with the pain of a contemporary woman, eloquently conveying the lasting damage of early trauma. The tale then jumps back to the woman's grandmother, unfolding her life and that of her daughter.

Three generations of damaged women.

In some ways our lives start out as single strands. Simple, straightfoward. Uncomplicated. As life progresses new strands are woven in, until the end, at which point a complex tapestry has been woven from relationship and experience, love and loss, hate and healing.

In other ways our lives are never really that simple. At birth, and even before it, the threads from our mothers and grandmothers travel through to who we are, and to what we will be. Their pain shapes us. Their brokenness reflects through to us and we take on our own fractured variation.

So I think I understand why all these books exist.

They exist because we have to write them.

Mom, I need to hear your stories.

Infectious fascination

From: If You Want to Write

Tolstoy, one of the most interesting men who ever lived, explains that mystery of “interestingness” and how it passes from writer to reader. It is an infection. And it is immediate. The writer has a feeling and utters it from his true self. The reader reads it and is immediately infected. He has exactly the same feeling. This is the whole secret of enchantment, fascination.

--Brenda Euland

Mass Rejection Email Fail (Oh you literary agents: such kidders.)

Writers are like salesmen. Actually, writers are salesmen, though not by choice. We have to churn out words and ideas and stories and then pitch them repeatedly until (hopefully) finding someone who will love and cherish the work down the aisle toward publication.

For my latest picture book I've sent out 43 queries and submissions to agents and publishers so far. With more to come.

For the previous picture book, I sent out 50.

For the first picture book, 21.

I'm getting better at it. Faster.

Being in sales means being told NO repeatedly. It's just a reality of the job.

Imagine yourself as a toddler all over again, reaching for the TV remote, or trying to climb up to the high shelf where the cookies are stored, or coveting the stuffed rabbit in the arms of your friend.

No Suzanne.

No. No no no.

All the while your two-year-old emotions shriek "But I WANT it!"

That's a bit what it's like, though I try to tell myself that my work is actually good, and that my desire to be published is more than mere Id-speak.

Rejections tend to come in three forms.

1) The generic form letter. (Thanks but no thanks.)

2) The personalized form letter. (It didn't totally suck, but still.)

3) The encouraging letter. (I liked the poignancy of the even pages but the lack of vampires in the odd ones makes it not quite publishable.)

I've mostly received the first type, which, (she proclaims adamantly) is not unusual. I've gotten a few of the 2nd and 3rd types, and they get me excited enough to post FB statuses which will probably embarrass me later.

But this week a weird thing happened.

First, a type 1 rejection email arrived in my inbox from a well respected literary agency. It was quickly followed by an automated RECALL message. Shortly after that, a third note appeared, this one reading (in all caps) "Please disregard the previous message."

Being a two year old, I started to get worked up! Maybe this was it! They'd accidentally sent me a rejection note, and then realized it was an accident! My big break had come! Maybe!

But just as the sweet taste of success was forming in my imagination, the cookie crumbled. The ugly reality set in.

I saw it in the To: field. Email addresses.

Lots of them. 238 to be exact.

We were mass rejected.

The awesome fail of it all elicited a deluge of email responses from rejectees, ranging from "Please stop hitting reply all!" to "I didn't even write to them! or did I?" to "Thank you for sharing my personal email address with so many people. As an attorney, I'm sure this issue can be resolved."

Out of this so far has come two Facebook pages, a variety of blog posts, and at least one e-zine article. Given the creativity of the group, it produced poems, banners like the one at the top of this post, and catch phrases.

It also created a strange band of brethren.

We are the 238. The many. The proud. The rejected.