LIVE FROM WESTCHESTER COUNTY:
It’s time for the Bored and the Restless!
Yes, it’s true. I think my Mom was getting a little bored.
She finished reading and editing a rough draft of my manuscript. She finished her book on Mennonites in little black dresses. She painted a bathroom ceiling. And she spent a lot of quality time with the girls. What was left besides teaching the dog to sit?
See Mesa sit!
And I was becoming restless waiting for the editor to return my manuscript.
When it showed up like a naked baby dropped at my doorstep a few weeks ago, I called my mom for help.
“Waah!” I cried to her on the phone after reading what I’d hoped would be the final draft. This is when I realized nothing is ever truly done, except for my meatloaf. I’m not sure what it is about me and meatloaf, but no matter how many times I make it, I always seem to over cook it.
My Mom sympathized, explaining that I would probably go through several more rewrites until I was truly happy with the manuscript. That’s when she offered to come visit in the first place– to help me edit.
“You know how you are, Honey,” she said.
“What is that supposed to mean, ‘I know how I am?'” I shot back in the same snotty tone of voice that my daughters use on me.
She reminded me about how frustrated I became at age five when I was apparently determined to write to the Tooth Fairy. Forget the fact that I couldn’t read or write and still had training wheels on my bike unlike Sherry Spaginski who was now flying down Southwick Drive on her banana yellow Schwinn. She was a year older and could write the alphabet. I know because she showed me her practice sheets on the bus ride home.
My Mom used her hand to guide mine in writing the letters that Sherry could do by herself. D-e-a-r – T-o-o-o-t-h- F-a-i-r-y.
“I do myself,” she quotes me as saying. That was before I burst into frustrated tears, the same as I was doing with my manuscript now.
I think getting frustrated by long processes has less to do with writing and more to do with being born on New Year’s Eve… The way I see it, all the adults were drunk that night. Forceps sounded like a great idea for two reasons: My dad could use me a tax deduction and the doctor could go back to his lampshade. Why else would I have been born just a few minutes before midnight? And why is there a permanent indent on the left side of my head?
I mention the indent from time to time, trying to trip my Mom up on her story. So far, nothing.
And now here i was trying to force the process of publishing the book.
“Everything is due time!” my Mom said, as we both laughed.
The only thing left to do now besides pace while waiting for the verdict is to work on my meatloaf recipe.