by Barbara Poelle
So, the Poelles moved. It was an adventure. And by adventure I mean that the contractor effed up the wiring so we didn’t have electricity in the living room or the bedroom on Friday and then he PROMISED to be there first thing Saturday morning, so of course he shambled in at 11:30 on SUNDAY so we had to hang the bedroom curtains by candlelight and Husband yelled, “This is like Bed, Bath and BeAMISH!” and then he almost lit them on fire.
We laughed a little too hysterically.
Really though. This place is too fancy for the likes of me. Husband fits riiiiight it, but I keep expecting a knock on the door and two guys in suits will look at me knowingly and I will sheepishly duck my head and allow them to escort me away from the premises.
Dude! Our maintenance guy just started mowing the lawn and I just yelled, “That is a LAWNMOWER downstairs because there is a LAWN!” Husband went, “Yes, babe.” And kind of sighed. But, I mean do you see? This place has LANDSCAPING. I might have to stuff my own hooker corpse in the wall just to feel centered. Or at least fall off the roof into a trash bin or something. One good thing has come out of this: clearly I have to buy only top shelf or I will embarrass myself in front of the neighbors.
All the other people who have lived here for years are so used to things like landscaping. And elevators. And closets. (Closets in Manhattan are like facelifts in Beverly Hills. Everyone acts like they get along fine without, but secretly think about how life would be different with.) They probably don’t think about it too much, and they probably get angry when the elevator isn’t moving fast enough or the begonia petals track into their foyer. Just like how a lot of times when you are on book three or four and feeling frustrated that you weren’t asked to do your panel this year at a conference, you forget that you are a published author. You DID it.
It is so important to be present, but it is also so important to remember where you came from. When is the last time you patted yourself on the back for even TRYING to write a book? When is the last time you paused and said out loud, “I did it.”? Take a minute.
You have come so far. Remember when you typed the last sentence? Remember when you wrote you query? Remember when you got your first rejection letter? Remember when you DIDN’T? Remember when you would duck your head and say, “I’m a writer,” nervous and frustrated when the next question was, “Oh? Who is your publisher?” and you would say brightly, “Still looking!” Remember when you would lift your chin and say, “I’m a writer,” and could answer the next question with “Random House.”? Remember when you saw cover art for the first time? Remember when someone asked you to sign a book? Remember when you became a published author?
You did it.
Take a minute. Take two. You earned it.
And for those of you out there still on chapter 7. Or still agent hunting. You take a minute, too. This is a murky journey and sometimes the wiring is all effed up. But there’s a candle. And laughter. And LANDSCAPING. So it can’t be all that bad, right?
