A Real Conversation With My Father

Right before my wedding in January, my dad and I had a conversation about the suit he was going to wear to the big day. While all of the other males involved were renting suits, he decided to buy one. What follows is the conversation we had regarding the situation:

Just what I want to think of on the wedding day.

Dad: Yeah, I’m going to buy a suit for the wedding.

Me: Huh? Why? You could just rent one with the other guys and then you’ll match exactly.

Dad: Nah, I’d rather buy one. Besides, I need a suit anyway.

Me: Huh?

Dad: You know, to be buried in.

Me: Nice, dad.

Dad: What? It’s true.

Me: *Silence*

Some things need no editorializing.

Submitting After Rejection: Keeping Your Work Out There

Rejection is a part of this crazy writing business. I don’t need to tell anyone who has submitted anything to anyone that. What supposedly separates successful writers from those who never make it–besides being able to, uh, write–is persistence. That whole, getting up and dusting yourself off thing. This, my dear readers, is not something I’m very good at.

I am so alone in my rejection-induced melancholy. Or, something equally pathetic and emo.

Now don’t get me wrong: I’m not a delicate butterfly. I can take criticism, relish it, even. For a few months I will be such a go-getter about my writing career. Rejections will pour in, but it doesn’t phase me. “A rejection, you say? Onto the next market!” I celebrate rejections almost as much as the rare acceptance.

After three rejections on a single story, I’ll take a look at it again just to make sure there’s nothing glaringly wrong. If an editor has provided feedback, I’ll take that into consideration. Maybe I’ll even do a rewrite. Then that story is sent back out to the great beyond of slush piles.

I can manage this gusto for are of submission for a few months before something awful happens: I get tired.

I know it’s such a sad pitiful excuse. But you see, rejections tend to have a cumulative effect. One, two or three rejections don’t bother me. But when every single thing I’m sending out is coming back with the proverbial big red “NO” on it, it’s easy to step back and wonder why the heck you’re doing this. But more than the feeling of being rejected, it’s the act of submitted over and over that gets tiring.

And then life gets in the way. Or rather, I let it get in the way. I’ll feel guilty at first, but I’ll get so used to writing and not submitting that the act of non-writing becomes the rule rather than the exception. Suddenly, I don’t feel so guilty anymore.

I wish I had the solution to putting an end to this dreaded cycle, but I’ve yet to find it. In the meantime, I’ve submitted four of my short stories once more after giving each a good once over. Some are flash some are standard shorts, and all are delightfully speculative. Hopefully, they will find dear, nurturing homes that accept their absurdity.

And I guess it’s about time I wrote something new, huh?

How do you keep submitting (and submitting and submitting) even when nothing sticks? What motivates you? I’d love to hear your suggestions. Or, you know, you can always yell at me. That works, too.

I Was a 16 Year Old Stereotype

I am 26 years old. My face has grown narrow and my body tells me I’m no longer infallible each time I stand (creak, pop). I’m a college-educated business owner. I’m married. In sum: I’m a grown woman with her own mind, wants and needs. Great right? Sure, only it’s left me wondering how I got here.

You see, I was such a weak willed girl. That might sound harsh, but truly, I was a 16 year old living, breathing stereotype that I’m ashamed to identify with today.

Let me back up.

Part of me recognizes that it’s normal to be boy-crazy in the midst of puberty. As a teenager, I obsessed over boys and celebrity crushes and all of the things depicted in popular culture that girls that age love. These images of teen girls are likely rooted in truth. Hormones are to blame, for sure. But how much of my behavior was influenced by a culture that said I should do anything I could to catch a boy’s attention?

Each morning when I woke up, I preened in front of the mirror, hating everything I saw. My female friends made it a point to emphasize every one of my flaws for their own amusement. Some “friends,” I know. And my perpetual shyness got in the way of talking to people and showing anyone who I truly was.

Society told me if a boy liked me, I was worth something. If no one from the opposite sex would glance my way, I was useless. Yet, if you were to pursue anyone of your own accord, you’d be labeled, stigmatized and derided for being too bold, too brash and dare I say a shameless hussy!

I’m exaggerating, but you get the point. There is an unspoken balance teens girls must hold onto. The tightrope walk between virgin and slut. The ever-present need to attract a mate, but not do anything overt to accomplish that. Because we girls just aren’t inherently worthwhile, you know. We have to do something to get a guy. But I’m getting off topic. The virgin/slut paradigm is so engrained in our culture that I do no one a service by delving into it here.

Back to being 16.

I wasn’t a “bad” girl. Yes, I’m talking sex here. That wasn’t me, but I did compromise myself on occasion for the sake of a boy. I definitely felt the pressure to be something I wasn’t and to mold myself into a girl that a boy would like.

Pitiful, isn’t it? I acknowledge that feeling inadequate and out of place is a part of growing up, but hiding who you are to gain favor transcends the teen years. It can set the tone for a life lived in the shadows. A life only half lived in the wake of another’s expectations.

If all of this sounds melodramatic, I’m sorry. But the realization that you spent the better portion of your teen years trying to be someone else for everyone else’s sake is mentally taxing.

Hiding my thoughts led to losing them.

Thankfully, I’m at the point now where I better understand myself (though it’s always a learning process) and feel no shame at voicing my own opinions. I think back 10 years ago when the walk across campus at high school every day filled me with so much dread, I’d rather stay home and sleep than face people that were supposed to be my friends just waiting to take a shot at my crumbled self-esteem. I sometimes wonder what I would have been like if I hadn’t been afraid to be myself around my peers who mocked my clothes, my teeth, my skin and my body. Would I have stood up and had an opinion?

The positive side of me thinks, yes. Of course I would have. Anyone who knows me now has no doubt encountered one of my unfettered tirades about something. But the pessimistic side hits closer to the truth: I couldn’t have voiced an opinion when I was 16 because I didn’t have any.

Spending your youth accommodating everyone with false agreements and complacent smiles (just so they’ll like you) does an awful thing to your mind. You forget how to think for yourself.

When I was 16 and a stereotype, I was so unhappy. And though I know that girl with a shriveled up soul was me (and is in me and will forever haunt me), she is not a girl I want to know. I understand her and why she made the decisions she made, certainly.

But I despise her.

The Day the Dolphin Laughed At Me

The oil spill in the Gulf upsets me, though I’m ashamed to admit, sometimes I forget. Living in So Cal, I don’t see daily reminders of the devastation down there. But when I flip on the TV or seek out updates online, I’m reminded of the awfulness of the situation and how the people living on the gulf coast don’t have the luxury of forgetting about their oil-slicked shores.

After seeing some particularly disgusting images, I couldn’t help but think of the time I went to San Diego for a week when I was eight. It was pretty much the only family vacation I ever remember going on where we stayed overnight and it featured my first trip to SeaWorld.

On a side note, when I asked my dad what the difference was between a motel and hotel he said that a motel was nicer and that’s why we were staying in one. ::grin:: Ah, parental white lies.

Most of the trip is lost to wispy memory now, but I do recall a few vivid details. For instance, I was dressed identical to my mother: over-sized sunglasses, black tank top and white bicycle shorts with black flowers–hey, don’t judge.

But what stands out the most from that day was the moment we approached the dolphin tank. There was a round tank in the middle of the walkway. I believe it was connected underground to a larger tank (at least I hope it was!) and you could walk up very close and see dolphins swimming around. I was fascinated by their shiny skin and graceful tails swishing.

Dolphins can laugh, right?

Then, out of nowhere, a dolphin emerged from the water. He (I say he because his actions befitted a little boy’s playground antics) turned to one side with his head out of the water. One fin extended up as if to wave. Then he slammed it down onto the water’s surface, sending a huge wave right onto my small frame. I was soaked. And before the dolphin plunged back into the water, he paused, looked at me with those black glassy eyes and laughed.

I’m dead serious. That dolphin laughed at me.

He thought splashing me was pretty damn funny and because of his bold attitude I never forgot him.

So what on earth does this memory have to do with the oil spill to end all oil spills? Sorry people, this is about to get serious.

To say I was greatly upset when I saw images of dead dolphins floating to the water’s surface in the Gulf, and a man carrying a baby dolphin out of the foam, only to learn it died later, would be an understatement. Photos that don’t seem to make it to the nightly news of animal carcasses and workers covered in oil also disturb.

I don’t know how people can go from day to day without acknowledging this issue. Or act as if it’s not a big deal. “Oh so some sea life dies, so what? We’ll be okay.” Where does this sort of passivity come from? Is it a natural reaction when faced with issues that are too big to comprehend? Or does it stem from the seemingly acceptable apathy that runs rampant in our society?

People that don’t at least want to clean off pelicans, sea turtles or even those poor dolphins, dumbfound me. What kind of people are these? If I had money, I’d like to think that I’d attempt to go down there and try to do something (despite BP’s desperate attempts to prevent anything from getting done).

I can understand people feeling powerless, but those who don’t care at all baffle me.

But maybe I’m just biased. I mean, a dolphin pretty much made fun of me once. How many people can say that? In my opinion, a creature capable of that sort of tomfoolery doesn’t deserve such a devastating fate. Nor do any of those sea mammal’s fishy friends. Pardon me if that’s hippie dippie, but it’s true.