The Lazy River incident

Her eyes.
That’s about all I can remember.
They latched onto mine through a thick layer of clear, chlorinated water, silencing the squeals, the laughter, the shouts, the splashing. Silencing all sounds completely.
They pleaded, but at the same time, they seemed so full of resignation.
So sad.
So apologetic.
I hesitated.
In the end, it made no difference.
But I hesitated.
I stood there beside her in the water, holding my boy’s tubular raft steady with one hand, and for just a moment – a split second – I simply took in those eyes. Completely. I was captivated. I was frozen. I did nothing.
Then, without thinking, I reached.
I grabbed her thin arm and I pulled, still locked on her eyes as they broke the surface and blinked.
I held her like that, dangling her frail, young body just inches over the surface while I scanned the crowd for a lifeguard. Once again, it was the eyes. His caught mine, which must have relayed her plea. He said nothing -- just plowed through the water and wrapped his arms around her small waist, holding her tight.
“Where’s the mother? Do you know?” he asked, finally.
I pointed to a woman standing in the open center in one section of a double raft, her back to the emptiness, laughing with an older child, who was stretched comfortably across a single raft. They were near the exit of the Lazy River.
At the time, I wasn't sure how I knew.
It came back to me hours later. I had seen the girl fall. It just hadn’t registered. The danger. The threat. I was too busy. Too involved with own kids to understand what I had seen until the current brought me to those eyes.
I watched as the lifeguard brought the toddler to the mother, tapped her on the shoulder and gave the child over. He had disrupted her laughter, her moment with her older child. She was clearly annoyed.
She demanded to know why he had her.
“Because she was drowning,” the lifeguard answered.
His voice was flat.
Angry.
Immediately, the mother turned, searching for flaws in the section of tube behind her, certain she would find a hole in the sealed bottom of the safety seat. She was haughty, anxious to blame Legoland, unwilling to accept that her failure to put a life jacket on a child less than two years old had nearly resulted in her death.
Unwilling to admit that she hadn't even noticed her daughter was gone.
The lifeguard shook his head in disgust.
He turned and waded away.
I thought it didn’t bother me.
It was over that fast.
So fast, I almost didn’t think to mention it.
But the eyes came back to me over dinner and then again when I was brushing my teeth and then again in the morning. They do not come in my dreams. They appear in the most mundane moments. In the most excited moments.
Unpredictably.
They come and they go.
The eyes and the mother’s laughter.

Preparing for the inevitable: negative reviews

I've yet to publish a book, so I can't say what a negative book review feels like.
I've had only one review on my published short stories and that got five stars, so I'm in la-la land over that.
But my journalism days ... oh, my journalism days!
You'd think those experiences would have hardened me, but newspaper articles don't really get reviewed.
They get reactions.
In the best cases, I received loads of phone calls, interest from the national media, thank-you notes and teary-eyed visitors offering hugs, cookies and flowers. Those reactions made me feel good about my career choice, like my stories made peoples lives just a little bit better even for only a day.
In the worst cases, I was lunged at by prisoners; yanked into a mob angry relatives (It wasn't even my story! I was just returning the photo.); stalked by a man who was grateful  I had made public his illegal incarceration, but who was also mentally ill and untreated (He later proposed to the female deputy who told him to leave me alone!); stolen from; cursed at; and wished an early death for myself and my future children.
But even such negative reactions to news stories can be, in a sense, a good thing.
Bad people don't like it when their wrongs or their weaknesses are revealed, especially to the general public.
They get mad.
That's okay by me.
So even 11 years of journalism has not prepared me for the inevitable -- for my first negative novel review, the day when someone takes my heart right out of my chest and stomps on it, ripping my work to shreds.
That must be what it feels like, right?
I think about this whenever I read a novel that, for whatever reason, rubs me wrong.
How would I react if my work were publicly bashed?
Could I stand it?
I found comfort recently in a post by author/blogger Beth Revis.
She has a good point.
I don't like beef.
Why?
I just don't like it, so I'll never give a steak or a burger or a pot roast a good review.
Yuck!
That poor chef will just never win over a non-beef lover like me.
That's what I need to remember.
I have to think beef.

The Rejection Generator Project: if only I had known

I remember too well the sting of those first rejection letters.
I thought I was prepared.
Fellow writers had told me I'd be swimming in them before I got my first contract offer from an agent.
So I cleared a wall for their display, a means of confronting rejection head-on and with pride.
Still, it hurt.
But it hurt only the first few times.
After a while, I became numb to automatic rejections and I learned the value of the personal notes, which sometimes came with feedback. I even came to miss them when I finally signed with an agent nearly three years ago, eagerly searching my inbox for strays.
I have since parted ways with my agent and returned to the hunt.
I knew I would have to endure those early stings again, so I steeled myself and fired away the first few query letters. I waited weeks, sometimes months, never knowing when I would open my inbox and read those words that pierced my heart and soul.
Too late, I learned it didn't have to be that way.
I could have been rejected on my own terms with the negativity self-inflicted, expected, hard-hitting from the start. I could have beaten myself up five times in one day and gotten the whole thing over with, numbed myself immediately instead of waiting, waiting and waiting..
I could have -- no, I should have -- used The Rejection Generator Project.  
I will tell you no more.
Check it out.
Spare yourself.
Be warned though, it can be addicting even for those who already have agents or publishers. 

The panini generation

I'd like to modify the analogy of our age group as the "sandwich" generation.
It just doesn't work.
Too many good sandwiches come on soft, tasty bread.
The bread is actually quite delicious and satisfying.
The way I've been feeling lately is more like panini -- my precious bread crushed by two thick slabs of hot metal that are squeezing the melted cheese out of me, searing us all and permanently charring our skin.
I'm not even there.
My parents are a good 1,000 miles away and our youngest brother is taking the full brunt of it.
But the past couple of weeks, I've been on the phone or on email dealing with doctors, social workers, case managers, directors, our parents and other family members all while trying to keep the household going and lamely pacifying my kids when they come home and I'm too busy to hear about their days.
And writing?
Forget it.
This is the first chance I've had to write anything.
I miss it.
It is getting better.
My mother is improving and my father has been stable for a long time.
But that grill is still there, threatening.
And it can be cruel and deceptive.
There was, for instance, a moment when the pressure eased and I rolled over to survey the damage to the other slice of bread.
Just then the grill gave me one more hard, heated squeeze, nearly suffocating me with the pressure to make up for all I've neglected, especially the kids.
Book reports were due. Easter was looming. The twins wanted to roller skate in the house.
Fortunately, I am not alone in this sandwich.
Two other strong hands reached out and pushed back the grill, helping me fluff the bread, tending to it in magical ways, making it soft once again.
I found that the bread is tougher than it had seemed. The heat had not broken it down and the char marks could be scraped away.
My kids still love me.
They didn't starve.
They made their school deadlines.
The Easter bunny will make an appearance on time.
And the twins have not convinced me to let them roller skate in the house.
Thank goodness for those two other hands.
Here's the thing though.
Despite it all, I still love panini.
Especially the bread.