Once upon a time, a man died and went up to Heaven, where Saint Peter was waiting for him at the Holy Gates.

 

“I’m very sorry,” said Saint Pete, “but I can’t let you in.”

The man was shocked and very disappointed.  “Why not, Saint Peter?” he asked. “Wasn’t I a good man on Earth?”

“You were a very good man, indeed,” replied Saint Pete.“But here’s what your problem was – you could not stop yourself from telling other people how to lead their lives. If they were making a mistake of some kind, you felt compelled to point it out to them.”

Once again, the man was shocked by Saint Peter’s words. “But I don’t understand, Saint Peter. Why was this a bad thing? I was just trying to help them. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do on Earth -  help people?”

“Not in this instance,” replied Saint Peter sternly. “You never learned to mind your own business. And for that reason, I’m afraid you’ll have to go to Hell.”

The man pleaded with Saint Pete. “Please, Saint Peter, I didn’t mean any harm. I was just trying to help, that’s all. I didn’t know I was doing a bad thing. Please, please, give me another chance?”

Saint Peter looked at the man and could see that he honestly hadn’t meant any harm. Because that was so, he thought that perhaps he might bend the rules…just this once.  However, before he did, he would test the man’s sincerity. Unbeknownst to the man, of course.

“All right,” decided Saint Pete. “I’ll go to the Higher Ups and see what I can do. In the meantime, you wait in that room over there. Just go in, and close the door behind you.”

The room to which the man had been directed was large and empty, save for a bench. As directed, he closed the door as he went in, and sat on the bench, waiting for his verdict. And as he sat, he noticed there was a narrow, open archway which led to an anteroom at the far side, opposite to where he was sitting.

As he was pondering what might be in the anteroom, the door he’d closed opened, and an angel came in. He was carrying a very tall ladder.

“Hello,” said the angel. “I hope I’m not disturbing you. Do you mind if I come through? I’ve just got to take this ladder and leave it in that anteroom.”

“Please, go right ahead,” said the man. “You don’t need my permission.”

And then, an odd thing happened. The man watched as the angel walked across the room, turned his ladder horizontally in his arms,  and attempted to walk through the narrow archway with it. Naturally, he was unable to get through, as the ladder held horizontally was now much too wide.

The man observed with incredulity as the angel made attempt after attempt to get through the archway while holding the ladder thusly. Each time, the ends of the ladder banged against the wall on either side of the opening, propelling the angel backwards, and making quite a mess of the walls it kept hitting in the process.

Naturally, after about fifteen minutes of this, the angel was winded and perspiring.

“Whew!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t realize this was going to be so difficult.”

The man couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Are you serious?” he blurted. “If you want to get through, hold the damn ladder vertically!”

The angel shook his head and looked at the man regretfully. “My friend, he said, “this ladder’s not damned, but you are.”

And the next thing the man knew, he was in Hell.

_______________________

I can’t remember how old I was when my father told

me the story above, but I was still young enough that

my questions were only just starting to become

annoying to him.  Those questions were on every

subject from “Why do you support the war in

Vietnam?” to “Why don’t you ever do anything to

stop all the terrible things going on in this house?” 

Since he couldn’t seem to come up with any reasonable

answers for me, the parable above was an attempt to

stave off the inevitable, which was that my

questioning of him would eventually go

from annoying to unbearable… for both of us.

Even my response to this story was not what he’d

hoped. He thought I’d feel forewarned that my quixotic

nature was taking me closer to Hades every day.  But

ironically, all it prompted was another litany of

questions: “What kind of angel is stupid enough to

behave like a human?” and “What kind of God

would send a man to Hell for questioning human

stupidity?”

It wasn’t until many, many years later that I recognized

that my father had a point, though perhaps not in the

way he’d believed. Anyone at all, with an average

human intelligence, understands very well which

way one needs to hold a ladder in order to get it

through a narrow archway. But pretending that he

doesn’t, he accomplishes one thing – he can tell himself

he tried to get through with everything he had and

just couldn’t succeed.

The fact is, he doesn’t want to succeed. He says

he has to get through a door and deposit a ladder in

an anteroom, but he doesn’t truly want to. 

All he wants is to pretend to himself and everyone

else, that he really, really tried.

And because this is actually his real goal – the

illusion of an attempt at completion of a task, which is

another way of  saying a ‘change’ – rather than the

actual change – he doesn’t want anyone to point out to

him that his ‘attempt’ is in fact no attempt at all.

He doesn’t need anyone getting in the way of

that self-deception. Like my father, it will more 

than irritate him,  because by pointing it out, making

him aware that you  are aware that he’s lying to

himself, you will make him hate himself and, as

a result, (especially if your own attempts at change are

real, and your desire to help him  is motivated out of

genuine caring, rather than smug superiority) he will

hate you, too.  

A fast way to hell, indeed.

Remember that the next time you

(metaphorically) observe an intelligent adult holding a

ladder horizontally, trying to get through an archway.

 

Say nothing. Wish him “good luck,” and get out of his

way.

 

 

I have been receiving a lot of emails from readers ever since my book, Harlot’s Sauce, was published. The emails have ranged from "good book, but change the cover" (more than one person has said that, and finally the publisher has listened, but more about that later…) to an outpouring of admiration and assignations to me of wisdom and expertise, as in, "You’re SO wise when it comes to relationships. I wish I were more like you."

And this feels… weird. Because, first of all, a letter filled with adoration received from a person who doesn’t know me is, to paraphrase Amy Alkon, a bit like having a stranger come up to you and give you a foot massage- it feels good, maybe even a little exciting, but at the same time, it’s unnerving. It’s too intimate, too fast. And I haven’t really earned that intimacy with some of the people who write to me. If anyone who doesn’t know me wants to trust me on anything, trust me on this- no one should be wishing to be more like me.

And the part about me being wise? Ha ha. That’s funny. The only thing I’m an expert on – a REAL expert – is FAILED relationships. I have failed so many times at love- whether it’s romantic, sexual, filial, maternal, daughterly, or comradely, that I guess those who send me emails are right- I probably could predict for anyone when they’re headed for tragedy in any of those relationships. But only because I’ve BEEN there- in a big way. So let’s say then that not only do I have that Ph.d in Patrichism, I have also earned my DFR- Doctorate in Failed Relationships. I’m an expert, alright – at breaking my own heart.

My first serious romantic relationship was with a man who used me and my naive virginity, along with my marked lack of self-confidence as his beard for sexual picadilloes I will never repeat, unless they are tortured out of me. I followed that up by worshiping at an altar I created for a man who for decades, considered my dedication to him his ‘money card’. He withdrew on that card, and withdrew, and withdrew, with no re-investment, until finally there was no balance left to extract.

During that same time, I had a ‘best friend’ to whom I was also devoted, and she dropped me not too long after I finally dropped this man. That hurt almost more than the failure of my romantic relationships did, when it finally dawned on me that we’d been ‘friends’ only because my psyche was in worse shape than hers, and my discontent made her feel better about her own.

And there is so much more, with father and mother and siblings, and an extended family group on one side that was less a ‘family’ and more a ‘coven’, blood-sworn in their dedication to dysfunction and maliciousness. A cult which cannot admit people who try to be or are happy or whole, because somehow that slackens their dark, powerful clutch on one another. I’m talking about the kind of people Anthony Hopkins in some film would warn you to stay away from, unless you were covered in garlic and Crosses.

I developed a terror of getting too close to people generated by all of the above. Why? It was pure self-protection – I only had so much blood in my veins and I’d let those I cared about suck on it for way too long.

As a result of that fear, I screwed up yet again, and almost lost the one man who truly loves me, who is my best friend, as well as my husband and lover. Fear was never going to allow me to make the honest and true friends I do have now, if it hadn’t have been for the intervention of some seed of good sense that managed somehow to grow into the great, sturdy tree it’s become inside me, despite the soil deprived of minerals in which it’s had to blossom. Or maybe it grew because of that…who knows?

And this is me- the real me, without the cleverly written descriptions of my life that make you laugh, the anecdotes which on some days are so tricky to get down on paper – after all, how easy is it, really, to find ‘the funny side’ of your own foolishness and pain?

Why am I confessing all of this now, and in this unusually maudlin way? Simple. I want you to know who exactly it is you’re writing to, asking for advice, and venerating for her ‘wisdom.’ I want you to know that sometimes the only way to become wise, is to make your own mistakes and live through the agony of them, so that the lesson sticks.

Remember this the next time you come across someone who sounds like an ‘expert.’ Because they may have become experts the same way I have – not through success after success, but through disaster.

And you know what? It’s not nearly as bad as one might think, to learn to be wise that way.

Dear Readers:

Some of you will recognize this post as the one I

posted on VOX almost two years ago. It’s become quite popular on the internet, and I assume that’s because there are many young women who need to hear it. In fact, a situation came up this week with a young woman who is very dear to me, and I KNOW she needs to hear this. So I’m reposting it, just for her. Hopefully, she read it and know for whom it’s meant.

To My Young Woman Friend:

I’ve learned some valuable things about life, love and being female over the past half-century

and I thought if I passed some of the more important ones on to you, maybe it will save you some

precious time:

 

1) You are at least ten times prettier than you think you are. That holds true no matter how pretty you already think you are! Don’t believe me? Ask your mother/auntie/grannie if she thought she was pretty when she was twenty. She’ll say, "no." Then find a photo of her at that age. See what I mean?

 

2) The only thing you should be faking is confidence. If you don’t have it yet, pretend you do. In every new situation, pretend you’re not nervous, pretend you’re not afraid. After a few times doing this, the pretend part disappears.

 

3) Want to try something new, like painting, skiing, running your own business? Go to the library and borrow ten different books on the subject. Skim through them all, find the ones that have the most vital information and study them. Then see number 2.

 

4) No matter how old you get, remember what it was like to be a nine-year old girl. Remember the feeling of freedom. If you’ve already forgotten, do a cartwheel. You can so still do one. Savour that feeling. Wake up with it every day. You’ll stay young until the day you die.

 

5) In the same vein, cut or potted flowers are never a waste of money. Because every time we glance at them, they remind us how much beauty there can be in the world.

 

6) Speaking of money, starting right this moment, whether you’re twenty or sixty, you can change your finances around. Don’t leave someone else completely in charge, whether it’s your husband, partner, parents or banker. Become financially savvy. Financial independence gives you the freedom to walk away from many bad situations. How do you know you’re in bad situation? See number seven.

7) If your stomach hurts and you haven’t got a virus, you’re in a bad situation. Before you know what it is, your stomach always does. Give yourself some time to ponder what it might be that’s making your stomach hurt. Chances are you already do know, you just don’t want to believe it, for some reason. You can ignore advice from your friends, even your own brain, but you can’t ignore your stomach, because the stomach never lies. Oh, and by the way? – Drowning your stomach in alcohol won’t make it stop telling you the truth, either.

When meeting someone new and he or she seems to be behaving like an assh*le, show compassion first. If after you display your sincere compassion, they are still acting like an assh*le, walk away. If they follow you, call the police.

9) Wear sunscreen on your face, neck and hands every day, winter and summer. I don’t care how dark your skin naturally is. Wear it. You’ll remember me when you look in the mirror at age fifty. Always keep in mind that Your body is directly connected to your spirit. Look after your body. Exercise, floss and brush your teeth. Put nothing in your body that can permanently harm your spirit, including the wrong man.

10) And if you are in bed with a man and he’s the right man – meaning your stomach doesn’t hurt, he’s smiling at you, he knows your name, he’s not drunk and neither are you- for goddsakes- enjoy yourself. He is not at all thinking about how fat your thighs look.

[Note: Photos are af the author from ages 5- 51. This piece was retitled "Ten Things I'd Tell My Younger Self," by vibrantnation.com, divinecaroline.com and others....]

 

Are you engaged to be married, but none of your

friends or family seem as rapturous about it as

you are? Perhaps they see something to which

love has made you blind? The following are two

dozen and one indicators that guarantee you and

your perfect love will end up in divorce court.

(And please don’t ask me how I know):

 

1. If he has a neck tattoo he got in prison

2. If he always calls your private parts by a four-letter word

3. If he’s already complaining about your mother

4. If he lies to his friends about the fact that you are a year older than he is

5. If his family’s religious rituals are too complex for you to understand

6. If he owns both Gucci socks and Gucci ties in seven shades of blue, and insists they must absolutely match before going off to work

7. If, even when just out for a casual car ride, he swears at other drivers

8. If he reports to you that his mother is upset about something you said or did

9. If he cheated on someone to go out with you

10. If he forgets the name of your child from your previous marriage

11. If he asks you to sign a prenup

12. If his first sexual experience was with a prostitute that an older male family member ‘treated’ him to on his fourteenth birthday

13. If he laughs when someone compliments your outfit

14. If he thinks homosexuality is “learned.”

15. If he refuses to run out and buy you emergency tampons

16. If female airline pilots make him “nervous”

17. If he tells your sister he wonders what would have happened if he had met her first

18. If you find a stash of fetish magazines he’s kept hidden from you

19. If he consistently goes into another room to take phone calls

20. If he snorts when you voice your political views

21. If you cook his favorite dish as a surprise, and his response is that it’s not the way his mother makes it

22. If he complains it takes you too long to reach orgasm

23. If he knows the difference between your salary and his to the penny, and he makes a lot more or a lot less than you do.

24. If he mentions that if he were gay, he’d sleep with your best friend’s husband

25. If he has a neck tattoo he got in prison

photo is of Julia Roberts and Patrick Bergin in “Sleeping with the Enemy” (1991)

Summer is upon us, and though many of

us see this season as our opportunity to

get frisky in the sun, it’s also the season

for bug bites and… other nature-induced

itches. The handy guide below will help

you decide when, or even if you should

“scratch”:

Poison Oak

If you’ve got a poison oak rash, it means

you’ve been crawling around in a wild place

you shouldn’t have, with your naked limbs

exposed, and shame on you. Poison oak

rash is oozy and scaly, just like that bloke

you almost let pick you up at that sleazy

bar your friends dragged you to last week.

It’s a contamination that will spread over

your entire being the more you touch it.

Definitely, definitely do not scratch that

tickle. Even if you have had too many

shots of watered-down Jack.

 

Flea Bites

A flea bite is a prickling, burning bite that

hurts longer than a lover’s betrayal. And

just like a Cheater, fleas are hard to spot,

so you really can’t do much to avoid

getting bit. Do not scratch this tickle

either, once it happens; you’ll only

exacerbate the intensity. The only thing to

do is let that flea bite burn, until the toxins

dissipate and you no longer feel the pain.

But it will always leave a little red mark on

you which remains pretty much forever.

Mosquitoes

Any woman who believes “size matters”

has never had a mosquito in her bed.

These little guys have egos bigger than

Rod Blagojevich, and they make even

more noise than he does, too. Their

incessant drone is the only foreplay that

you get before they finally settle down for

a nibble. And when they do, they catch

you by surprise. Yet, their prick doesn’t

sting much, nor last long. It can be fun to

scratch their itch once or twice, but not too

hard, or you’ll swell up with infection. By

the time that happens, the mosquito

responsible is long gone.

Prickly Heat

Prickly heat is a little red rash that shows

up on your skin when you get too hot. It’s

suddenly just there, like that new man

you find so intriguing. Where did it come

from? Will it last long? And most

important, will it harm you if you rub? It’s

usually pretty safe to scratch this tickle

…for as long as the heat rash lasts.

Now that you have your newly-edited manuscript down to 143,122 words, (not including the 36,310 words of the ‘Back Section’ which includes recipes, a guide to additional reading, a history lesson, a wine list, and other information you deemed pertinent to your readers as addendums to your manuscript), you start looking for a book publisher. The only problem there is that you have no idea how to find a book publisher. Someone wiser than you, or maybe someone who just overheard someone else talking to another someone about this, suggests you get a “literary agent”. But you’ve no idea how to find one of those, either. So:

1) You go into your husband’s office and ask him, “Have you any thoughts on how I can get an agent for my women’s empowerment memoir?”

Your husband, a stockbroker who reads the financial pages, baseball biographies, and P.G. Wodehouse, and is at that very moment trying to make an important stock trade, replies (quite flippantly, you think), “None whatsoever.”

 

2) Unreasonably irritated, you leave his office, go back into your own, and type, “How to Get A Literary Agent” into the search engine on your computer. This is when you discover that Google has approximately 818,000 articles on how to find a literary agent, and amazon.com sells more than 50 books on the subject.

 

Surely you don’t need to read a whole book and all those articles? After all, how hard can it be to get an agent? Aren’t they like realtors? Don’t they want to sell your work? That’s how they make their money, after all, isn’t it?

 

Thus, assuming that selling a work of literature is like selling a house, you choose to follow the directives in a concise, one-page article you find on ehow.com.

 

3) The ehow.com article says that you need to first write a ‘query letter’ to an agent. Again, you are clueless. So again, you rely on Google, typing in, ‘what is a query letter?’ to find out on Wikipedia, another of your ‘unfailing’ information sources, that “a query letter is a formal letter sent to magazine editors, literary agents, to propose writing ideas.”

 

This seems simple enough, so you sit down and write your first ‘formal’ query letter, which goes something like this:

 

Dear ____________:

 

My name is Patricia Volonakis Davis, and I have written a women’s empowerment memoir called, “Amerikanaki”, which is my story about being raised first generation Italian-American, marrying a Greek national, and moving to Greece with him.

 

I hope you will be interested in reading my manuscript. I look forward to hearing from you.

 

Sincerely yours,

 

Patricia Volonakis Davis

 

Address

telephone number

email

 

4. After formulating your concise query letter to match the concise instructions which you followed to write it, you make a list of the top ten agents in the United States, finding their names through Google, too, of course.

 

You go to the agents’ individual websites and discover the particularized instructions on each. Some want you to post your query letter, along with a stamped, self-addressed envelope. Others will only accept queries submitted by email. Some ask you send the first 30 pages of your manuscript, to also be included in email, pasted, not attached, in “WORD format only”, or “RTF format” (a format you assume is an anachronism for RUT the F*ck?!). Some want you to include any three random chapters, to be sent along with your SAE. And yet others ask that along with your query letter, you send the x-rays of your teeth your dentist took during your last exam.

Following all these instructions diligently (you were a teacher, after all) you send out your ten query letters/emails to your ten top choices of agents, and expect to hear from them all within a week or two at the most.

 

5. Three months later, you’ve written and emailed over fifty literary agents and received two replies detailing further instructions, and after having complied with those, you never hear from those two again. You now have six of those fifty available books sitting on your desk, with one more on order from amazon.com, and have taken five writing courses. One of those includes a three-day class given by a literary agent, (who shows no interest in your manuscript at all, by the way), simple titled, “How to Write a Query Letter”.

It was during this class that you learned how pathetically inadequate your first query letter was, and you rewrote it so many times that it actually took longer to complete than the manuscript itself. You also learn that apart from your manuscript and your query letter, you need to write something called a “book proposal”, and you have a new list of books written down and ready to order on how to write one of those.

 

You’ve now spent hundreds of dollars on postage, photocopies, books, and classes. Additionally, you suspect your husband is seriously considering moving his office from home, so that you can’t barge in every day to cry over the latest rejection or out-and-out disregard from literary agents. You know these suspicions are well-founded when he suggests that you go to a writers’ conference where you can meet agents in person.

 

“But, writers’ conferences are very expensive,” you point out to your beleaguered husband.

 

“True, but a lot less expensive than my having to move my office,” he replies.

 

(You see? You were right.)

 

6. And so, you register for BEA (Book Expo America) in New York. You need to pay the conference fees, flight, hotel, meals, and transport to and from BEA, so that once there, you, along with hundreds of other hopeful writers, will have two hours to meet with as many agents as you can, who will give you three minutes each to pitch your manuscript to them. You have no idea who any of these agents are, you only read a short blurb description of them, and of whether they are looking for ‘fiction’ or ‘non-fiction,’ ‘children’s’ or ‘adults.’ You can also clearly see, as you stand on a queue waiting to speak to them, that all of the ones you’ve chosen are already annoyed at and/or bored with the writer who’s talking to them at the moment. And you’re up next.

 

7. You’ve spent thousands of dollars and another three months up to now, but guess what? ─ you walk away from that conference with seven business cards from agents who have told you to send them your manuscript! A month later, of the seven, two actually offer you a contract! Once again, you have no clue which of the two you should choose, so you go with the one who shows the most enthusiasm for your work. She turns out to be the less experienced of the two; as a matter of fact, you learn that you are her very first client, but no matter. You have an agent! You’ve done it!

 

8. You run into your husband’s office again, this time with excitement, kiss him and thank him for his brilliant suggestion. You then ring your best friend joyously, informing her that you finally have a literary agent! You will be published within weeks!

 

Or so you think.

 

                                       (To be Continued)

Today, I’m looking for your creative

opinions. A friend of mine produced a short

‘book trailer’ for my book, including the

music. I was very pleased with the gift.

 

For those who don’t know, a ‘book trailer’

is like a movie trailer, except for

books, not movies, obviously. I’d love to

hear your critiques and comments.

You can still reach me at my email address

patricia@patriciavdavis.com

even just to say "hello", (which would be

very nice, indeed) and I’m also on

Facebook now. I hope I get to see some

more of you there.

Harlot’s Sauce the book also has a

FACE BOOK FAN PAGE, and we just ran a

contest where one VOX neighbour of mine

won a$100 dollar American Express Card,

a Harlots’ Sauce Radio t-shirt, and an

autographed copy of the memoir. There will

be more contests, so if you are on

Facebook, and happen to like contests,

come join the fan page. (It would probably

help if you actually liked the book, but

I don’t think they make you sign a

affidavit to that effect! ; D )

Okay, so here is the vid. Looking

forward to hearing your thoughts!

 

Warm regards,

Patricia

 

May 2009 marks two years since I wrote my first blog , which was on VOX.com. These two years have been an extraordinary writing journey for me.

I started ‘blogging’ because my literary agent recommended it as a way to build my writer’s platform, but discovered that it offered me much more than that. Blogging helped me make friends from parts of the world I’ve not yet even had the opportunity to visit, taught me how much more alike across the globe we all are than I’d even suspected, and made me think about my perspectives on so many social and political issues. All because of comments left for me on my written posts by other bloggers, and comments left on the posts of others whose blogs I loved to read. Blogging even introduced me to some extraordinary writers who add so much quality work and enthusiasm to my online magazine.

And then, my dream came true and my first full-length work was finally published. And ─ boy, oh boy ─ did life change.

Yes, “getting a book deal” is the golden ring all writers are trying to grab on the merry-go-round of the publishing world. So, for those who dream of it, or for those who know someone who dreams of it, let me tell you what it’s really like once you’ve obtained that objective. Sit back, as I go through it all, step-by-agonizing-step. I promise you every word following is true:

1) You decide to write a book. You write every day for two years; some days you actually put some words down in a document. You then put your manuscript away for one year, because:

a) you move

or

b) your children move

or

c) one of your children moves back in.

2) You pick your manuscript up again, and write for two more years. You’ve now finished your first draft. That’s right ─ your first draft.

3) You give it to your husband and your best friend to read. You wait impatiently, feeling unloved and neglected, since for unfathomable reasons, they do not drop everything to read your manuscript, which is over 400 pages, single-spaced.

4) After finally reading, your husband and best friend both gently suggest that you might want to get a professional editor. You thank your friend sweetly, but argue with your husband bitterly for that heartbreaking and insulting insinuation, and then you put your manuscript away for another three months, because you have no idea where and how to find a good editor.

5)One day, a man whom you’ve never seen before is on the treadmill next to you at your gym. You blurt out to him that you are a writer, and are looking for an editor. It turns out that he is a writer also, and he recommends an editor he knows. This is not the sign from God you think it is. The man on the treadmill next to you is a writer because you live in Marin County, California, where, for better or worse, everyone, including George Lucas, thinks that he or she is a writer.

6) You phone the editor and she quotes you an eyebrow-raising hourly rate. You say you will ring her back. You walk into your husband’s home office, and tell him the fee the editor wants to work on your manuscript. Your husband asks, “Is she a good editor?” You say, “Yes, of course.” Your husband tells you to hire the editor.

7) Your new editor takes two months to edit 80 pages of your 400-plus page manuscript. Then she goes on holidays and returns after two weeks to tell you she won’t be able to work on your manuscript for another four months. You spend three sleepless nights trying to decide what to do about your new editor, whom you like as a person, but are very unhappy with as an editor. On the fourth morning, you go into your husband’s home office, exhausted, to tell him your problems with the editor.

He says, “I thought you said she was a good editor.” You leave your husband’s office, annoyed with him once again, go in your office and sit down at your computer to write an email to your editor, terminating your working relationship as professionally as possible, your stomach churning the entire time. She sends you a polite acknowledgment back, returns your manuscript, and with it, her invoice. You sigh with relief, and send her the money, a hefty sum. You are depressed and sleepless for three more days.

You go back to your gym, where the man who recommended your former editor is never to be seen again, but another man, whom you know a bit better, recommends his wife to edit your manuscript. You grab her email address and send her an email.

9) Man-at-the-Gym-Whom-You-Know-Better’s wife meets you in person appropriately at the local bookshop to discuss your needs and her credentials. She sounds qualified to you, but then, what do you know? The price she quotes you is even more eyebrow-raising than the price the previous editor quoted, so you excuse yourself to use the Ladies’, where you ring your husband on your cell phone, interrupting his work once again, to ask his opinion again. Your husband again asks, “Is she a good editor?” And again, you say, “Of course,” to which he replies again, “Then hire her.” You go back to the table where your now cold coffee and your new editor are waiting patiently, and hand over your manuscript, and Mrs. ‘M-A-T-G-W-Y-K-B’ promises to have your work back to you in one month, edited.

10) Your new editor returns your manuscript in one month, as promised. On it she has penciled in the margins dozens upon dozens of questions and comments. She also encloses a three-page document of her own that offers more suggestions, her invoice, and her doctor’s bill for the carpel tunnel surgery she needed to have after editing your manuscript.

11) You quickly glance through some of the notes your so-called editor has smeared across your manuscript, outraged and upset by every one of them. You walk into your husband’s office again, crying this time. This time, he wisely says nothing, and just keeps working. Disgusted with him, your editor, your work, and yourself, you walk out of his office, and phone your best friend for sympathy. She says she’s glad you found an editor who finished the job she promised to finish. Thoroughly disgusted now, you make an excuse to get off the phone. You leave your edited manuscript untouched for two weeks.

12) After two weeks, you look at your manuscript again, and decide you might as well try making some of the edits suggested, since you paid so much for them. You realize as you work that most, if not all, are not nearly as brainless as you’d first supposed. You type diligently and fruitfully for two solid months. Your manuscript is down to 337 pages and is much, much better. You run into your husband’s home office and tell him how exuberant you are over your brilliant editor. You run to your gym, hoping to meet up with her husband there, so you can congratulate him profusely on his choice of life partner. You now love him and her both, as though they are old, dear friends. You ring your best friend, joyously informing her that your manuscript is now ready to be presented to literary agents. You will be published within weeks.

……Or so you think.

(To be continued…..)

 

(photo is of Agatha Christie)

It’s that time of the year again- Parent-Teacher Conferences. As a former teacher myself, for those parents out there who are newbies at these conferences, I’ve devised the chart below so that you can understand exactly what certain statements your child’s teacher says in “Teacher Speak” mean in plain, everyday English:

WHEN YOUR CHILD’S TEACHER SAYS:	HE/SHE MEANS:
“She’s got an amazing sense of humor.”	“She’s obnoxious.”
“Is at times just a bit socially awkward.”	“I’d check for road kill in his toy box, if I were you.”
Is very precocious for his age.”	“If he tries to look up my dress one more time…”
“Struggles a bit with understanding directions.”	“Not the brightest lightbulb in the shed, is he?”
“Takes a unique, creative approach to assignments.”	“Have this child tested immediately.”
“She just loves to wear that pink dress, doesn’t she?”	“Do you supervise your children at all?”
“Has a hard time accepting the word, ’No.’”	“What the hell kind of a parent are  you?”
“Seems a little cranky in the mornings.”	“So, what’s going on at your house, hmmm?”
“Oh, she’s doing just great!”	“I have no idea which child you’re talking about.”

                  Enjoy that Conference!