Tag Archive for: Susan McBride

Hello, I Must Be Going

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by Susan McBride

I’ve been part of the Stiletto Gang for just about four years, and it’s been an absolutely wonderful experience. When Maggie asked me to guest blog in 2008, I had no idea that it would turn into a regular gig. I had once sworn I wouldn’t do blogs again because it involves more time than you’d think; but she convinced me that twice a month at Stiletto was completely doable.  Oh, yeah, and she assured me the group was comprised of the nicest bunch of women you could ever hope to meet.

She was definitely on the money about the “nicest bunch of women.” It has been a real pleasure dealing with such a helpful, considerate “gang,” and I have so enjoyed getting to know everyone better, through emails and through the always entertaining and insightful daily blog posts. I’m not sure I’m going to miss writing my two posts a month (with Emily coming along and deadlines galore, it was getting hard coming up with fresh ideas to expound upon!); but I will miss being a Stiletto chick. Luckily, the Stiletto ladies have become friends whom I intend to bug even after I’m officially off the blog as of June 1. So I won’t give them a chance to miss me!

Thanks also to my friends and dear readers who’ve commented on my posts through the years and who’ve supported me behind-the-scenes in so many ways. I feel fortunate to have connected with you through my words, and I hope to see you elsewhere, perhaps on Facebook or just via emails now and then. It is reassuring to know how many kind and caring people there are in the world when sometimes reading the daily news headlines makes me wonder how much goodness still remains.

For now, I’m looking ahead to Emily’s birth in June, to October (aka Breast Cancer Awareness Month) when my HarperCollins e-book about my breast cancer experience is released [In The Pink:  How I Met the Perfect (Younger) Man, Survived Breast Cancer, and Found True Happiness After 40], to February of 2013 when my next women’s fiction book for HarperCollins, The Truth About Love and Lightning is out, and so much more. Even when I try to calm things down, life feels crazy-busy, and I’d like to savor each moment as much as possible. I’m fortunate that I’ll be able to stay home with Emily while I work and, when I need to get out, we’ve got both grandmas in town. So we’re pretty well set!

My heartfelt thanks and best wishes to the ladies of the Stiletto Gang. You have made my time on this blog something special, and I will always think of it fondly. Hugs and kisses!

Oh, the Places She’s Gone!

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by Susan McBride

I was thinking today about all the places I’ve gone with Emily already, and she hasn’t even been born. And I don’t just mean trips taken, though she and I will be heading to Kansas City this weekend where I’ll speak at that Komen affiliate’s Pink Promise Brunch.

No, Emily hasn’t been to Paris or even Disney World in my belly (although I went to the World’s Fair in New York when I was in the womb, and my mother still likes to tell me how being pregnant allowed her to cut in front of everyone in lines–see, I was helpful even before birth!).

But Emily has been in a hyperbaric chamber (that was in February after our old furnace leaked carbon monoxide into our house)….
     
She’s been on TV (she already loves the folks at “Great Day St. Louis,” I can tell)….
She helped me teach a workshop at the Missouri Writers’ Guild’s conference and got to meet bestselling author Claire Cook (Emily’s secretly hoping Claire will write a sequel to Must Love Dogs called Must Love Cats)….
 
She was with me when I spoke at the Maplewood Library (and she received two knitted baby hats from Mary Garrett, one with a Blue Note on it and another that looks like the top of a little red apple)….
And when I received the “Survivor of the Year” award from the St. Louis chapter of Susan G. Komen for the Cure (pink is Emily’s favorite color)….
 Then she was feted with gifts at a baby shower (“Oh, Mom!” she sighed as I took a bite of a teething ring, just to check it out)….

I just hope she’s having fun, doing all these things before her due date. As much as she kicks, I’d say she’s having a ball. Or maybe she’s trying to tell me, “Quit talking so much and moving around so much, Mom!  I’m trying to get a little rest here!”

So long as she’s not annoyed by the clickety-clack of my keyboard since I’ve got revisions still to finish, a nonfiction e-book for HarperCollins to write about my breast cancer experience, and a rewrite of my young adult mystery for Random House. All due this year. Kind of like Emily (who should be making her grand entrance in about eight weeks…although she could show up in as soon as five weeks, said my doctor yesterday!).

Late, Late, Late Night Programming (aka This Is A Paid Advertisement)

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by Susan McBride, Pregnant Insomniac

I just can’t seem to sleep through the night any more (as if I ever did).  Nearly eight months pregnant, I plump three pillows beneath my head and have three smaller pillows positioned at various spots to support belly, back, and knees. Inevitably, I have to get up to pee and disentangle myself from said pillows and covers. By the time I return to bed and reposition everything, I’m often wide awake.

So that I don’t keep bugging Ed, I put on slippers and glasses and head downstairs. I free the cats from the basement, feed them, and fix myself a bowl of cereal (yes, even if it’s four o’clock in the morning).  Then I plunk myself in front of the boob tube, snuggled in a blanket, hoping somehow I’ll fall asleep on the couch.

Instead, I find myself fascinated by all the advertising. I’m trying to figure out what all the endless half-hour and hour-long commercials say about our society since most focus on a few things:  our weight and getting into shape, our undergarments, and stopping that dreaded process of aging.

If I was so inclined, I could order the Pilates chair for which “All My Children’s” Susan Lucci is the spokeswoman. Or I could call 1-800 to purchase any number of Zumba fitness packs, weights that vibrate, or that all-in-one gym that Chuck Norris and Christie Brinkley swear by.

But perhaps I don’t need all those workouts, not if I listen to the infomercials that insist my lumps and bumps are purely the result of ill-fitting undergarments. Apparently, if I order some magic bras–and a whole lot of Spandex to suck in the rest of me–I will lose several dress sizes without doing any exercises except those required to tug all the too-tight undergarments over my lumps and bumps.

And have you seen those T-shirt extenders that come in four different shades?  You pull them up to your waist so they cover the butt crack and belly exposed by your low rise jeans. With one of those belly bands wrapped around you and your shirt atop it, no one will ever know that your pants don’t fit. They’ll just think you’re super trendy, going for that layered look.

My favorites of all are the lotions, potions, creams, and cosmetics that swear they will take years off our faces, remove spots, tighten saggy skin, and turn us into Cindy Crawford. Not only does Cindy peddle her own formula–created by some fabulous dermatologist in France that she’s been seeing for twenty years who grows magical melons–but she’s got lots of celebs endorsing it as well. I’ve seen Leeza Gibbons (formerly of “Entertainment Tonight”) and Joan Lunden (once co-host of “Good Morning, America”) espousing the virtues of skin pick-me-ups, too. And then there’s Victoria Principal, who tells us about her “Principal Secret,” which I think, by the looks of her, has little to do with moisturizer and more to do with lots and lots of cosmetic surgery.

Though I have been tempted by that shampoo-less shampoo called Wen that Alyssa Milano swears by, I’ve managed to refrain from ordering anything during my late, late night TV viewing. Now if there was an infomercial for instant home delivery of chocolate-chocolate chip ice cream with bananas on top, I’d have that number on speed-dial.

The Joy of Being Pregnant (and the Less Enjoyable Things, Too)

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Now that I’m in my seventh month with Baby Emily due in late June (although my mom keeps saying, “No way you’re going to make it ‘til then!”), I thought I’d scribble down the fun stuff–and not so fun stuff–as I see it so far anyway.  It’s definitely been a new experience full of the unexpected, like the incredibly itchy rash I put up with for nearly six weeks before I broke down and took Prednisone; the pregnancy rhinitis that makes it feel like I have that Mucus Family from the TV commercial living in my throat; the swelling that can make my feet and ankles resemble puff pastry; the exhaustion and brain fog; and all the other reminders that I’ve got another being that’s taken me over.  Still, I wouldn’t trade any of that for the world, because the end result—a baby!—will be so incredibly worth it. If there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s that this pregnancy has certainly renewed my faith in miracles. After going through a bunch of bumps in the road these past five years, it’s awfully nice to be reminded of the good surprises life can bring!  And I can’t imagine any surprise better than this. 
Okay, the things I love about being pregnant (in no particular order):
1. I can eat six times a day and no one says, “Haven’t you had enough? Put the bagel with peanut butter down and step away from the counter.” 
2. Going shopping for large shirts because I’ve outgrown my smalls and mediums is actually a positive thing. 
3. Feeling Emily move!  I just love the sensation of her squirming around, kicking, poking, twisting. It’s so reassuring, and I feel like we’re communicating.  She’ll poke me, and I’ll rub that spot and say, “Hey, baby!  How’s it going?”  It’s our own Morse code.
4.  Ed is in charge of cleaning litter boxes (although I have gloves to wear when it’s an emergency, although that’s only happened a handful of times).
5.  I never feel guilty when I sit down, put my puffy feet up, and rest.
6.  When I say, “After I turn the guest room into a nursery, I’m re-doing the living room,” Ed doesn’t bat an eye. (I’ve made a point to show him all the articles about pregnant women nesting.)
The things I (occasionally) whine about:
1.  I pee every 15 minutes.  Okay, maybe not that often, but it sure feels like it. By my ninth month, no doubt I’ll know the location of every public restroom in town.
2.  I can’t find a comfortable position to sleep. Every time I try to turn, it’s like moving a bowling ball around and requires readjustment of pillows, sheets, night gown, etc. Then by the time I’m settled down again, I have to pee.
3.  I can’t see much below my belly. Shaving has gotten very scary. The only time in the past when I nicked myself this much was when I was about thirteen and handed my first Daisy razor.
4.  It’s hard to gauge distances between my belly and anything. I’ve run into more bathroom vanities, kitchen countertops, doorways, and grocery carts with my baby bump than I can count. And every time I do, I stop and ask Emily, “Are you okay in there?” 
5.  Ed doesn’t want me going for pedicures as he’s afraid of my breathing in fumes from the salon and using equipment that other people’s feet have used.  And trying to give myself pedicures just isn’t the same, particularly since I have a hard time seeing my toes much less reaching them.
6.  Not being able to go outside and work in the yard and garden. I honestly miss pulling weeds, trimming plants, and digging in the dirt.  Not only is getting my hands in dirt a no-no (for the same reason I’m not supposed to clean litter boxes, the dreaded toxo!), but it’s very uncomfortable bending and squatting to work. So I think the green things around our house are going to look a little wild this year!
Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go pee, get something to eat, put my feet up, and engage in a little mommy-baby Morse code with Emily.  I think she’s trying to tell me which car seat she’d like me to order.

Things that Make Me Go Argh: Underwear with Bows

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by Susan McBride

I’m still on deadline for my latest book (currently being called The Truth About Love and Lightning), and I’m frantically trying to get it done by next week. So when I reached in my Idea Bag for a blog topic, I realized I hadn’t refilled the darned thing in a while. Which made me go, “A-ha! Why don’t I write about something that makes me crazy? I could even explore another real-life irritant during the next frantic deadline, too!” Perfect. So today’s rant involves, yes, underwear with bows.

As a pregnant lady with an ever-growing middle, I’ve had to go shopping for bigger sizes in just about everything lately. So the other day, I found a nice pack of maternity underwear that I was hoping wouldn’t cut off the circulation in my thighs. They were good colors, too: standard white, gray stripes, and even a saucy leopard print. But when I opened the package, I realized the danged things had bows on the front. Those silly little bows that have appeared on my bras and panties since–oh, gosh–my whole life.

Yes, I probably appreciated them when I was eight or nine, maybe even eleven. But as I got older, I began to wonder what the point was of putting bows on the front of grown-up women’s underthings. Does anyone really like them? Are they supposed to make us think back on our youth and feel like girls again? If so, it isn’t working. It just irritates me, having to find my nail scissors to carefully cut them off.

And I mean “carefully.” It’s like a surgical operation getting those effing bows off bras and underwear without making a hole in the front and unraveling things. I think they sew them on with their super-industrial machines, certain that women everywhere would be destroyed if they ever fell off.

Back to my maternity panties with the bows. Seriously? I am in my sixth month of pregnancy. I have already gained 25 pounds and weigh more than my skinny husband. My a** now qualifies as booty and/or junk in the trunk. The increased size of said a** is not a gift to me (although I won’t vouch for Ed). So I would prefer not to put a bow on it.

Okay, I feel better now. Whew! Thanks for letting me vent. But if you’ll excuse me, I have surgery to perform on three pairs of new maternity underpants.

What Are the Odds?

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by Susan McBride

As a 47-year-old woman who’s five months pregnant (and who did it the old-fashioned way), I’m glad I didn’t read the statistics before Ed and I tried to have a baby.  I saw an article today where fertility experts basically said the possibility of someone my age getting knocked up without medical intervention was “slim to none.”  I’m thinking part of the reason behind these so-called experts coming up with that hardly encouraging response was that they’re all in the fertility game.  They want older women to think they need help (aka, they need to spend loads of moola) to conceive. I’m glad I listened to my ob/gyn instead of those geniuses.  Basically she told me, “If you’re still having your period regularly, you’ve got a shot.”  My internist threw in this tidbit, “If you still get cramp-like pains in the area of your ovaries between periods”–something called, and I’m not kidding, the schmertz–“you’re still ovulating.” 

I had both, and my ob/gyn did a blood test called FSH, which some doctors use to gauge fertility levels, and mine was nice and low (the lower, the better in this case).  All systems seemed to be go, which gave Ed and I hope that it could happen.

Let me backtrack a minute by saying I’d been through some rough stuff in my early forties, as some of you already know, namely dealing with a breast cancer diagnosis at 42 and all the scariness that entails.  I had fallen in love and married a younger man, and I really hoped at some point I could make him a daddy.  I didn’t have chemo so I didn’t go into early menopause with my treatment.  But it also meant I couldn’t possibly do hormone therapy to get preggers without a lot of risks.  So we opted not to do that, figuring we’d leave things up to nature. 

At 46, I found out I was pregnant after I missed a period (or two) while working on a deadline, planning a fundraiser, and dealing with my mom’s breast cancer diagnosis. Unfortunately, things didn’t look very good from the start.  We didn’t see a heartbeat on the sonograms when we should have. I miscarried at about eight weeks, on New Year’s weekend of 2011.  Not the best start to a new year I’ve ever had, that’s for sure.

My belly in January!

“You’ll be more fertile for the next two years,” my doctor promised, urging us to keep trying despite how devastated we felt. Ed and I still had the attitude that if it’s meant to be, it’ll happen.  So we didn’t give up.  Honestly, we just tried not to think about it, moving forward in our lives, keeping busy.  Until the day after my birthday in mid-October of 2011 when I found out I was pregnant again.  This time, I waited to go see my ob/gyn until I was pretty sure I was around eight weeks.  We saw a heartbeat on the ultrasound immediately, and Ed and I cried and laughed like a couple of fools. On the 20-week anatomy scan early in February, we learned that we’re having a girl. So nice to be able to talk to my belly and call her “Emily” now–although I’m still fond of “Peapod,” too. 

I’m not sure what those fertility experts would think. They’d probably dub me an anomaly or something.  Although when I Google “pregnant at 47” and check out messages in over-40 chat rooms, it looks like I’m not alone.  Seems like plenty of women are getting pregnant naturally beyond our supposed expiration dates. I wonder if they get questions, too, like “weren’t you menopausal already?” or “you must’ve had donated eggs, yes?”  Um, no and no.

I remember when some researcher came out with the odds of a woman over 40 getting married. I believe the statistic said we had a better chance of being killed by a terrorist than finding a mate. Yet another area where I don’t fit the mold since I met Ed a few weeks after I’d turned 41.

Which is why I’m not a fan of all these goofy studies telling us the averages for all kinds of things from dating to diseases to babies.  I figure we’d all be better off if we’d just ignore them and live our lives the way we want.  Who the heck wants to be average anyway???

What’s in a Name?

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For many years—and many books—I’ve had the pleasure of naming characters. It’s sort of like the appetizer of the writing process, at least for me. It’s something I do early on, when I’m still conjuring up what the story’s about. And it’s fun, too. What’s better than picking the perfect moniker for your protagonist and the entire cast surrounding her?
I’ve never plundered a phone book or a book of baby names (although I know other writers who rely on them). The right names always seem to appear magically. Almost as if the characters name themselves.

But before this pregnancy, I never had the opportunity to name a real person. Oh, I’ve named plenty of cats (fur-babies, I call them). But human kids? Nope. Not until a week or so ago when we found out the sex of our child on the anatomy scan (it’s a girl!).

Like many women on the planet, I had favorite names stuck in my brain. It’s so wonderful that now I can actually use my most favorite of all: Emily. Pretty, huh? And her middle name will be Alice, after Ed’s mom. Emily Alice. How nicely it rolls off the tongue!

I’ve already had a friend remark what a good old-fashioned name that is, and I told her that old-fashioned was back in style. Anyone else watch “Tori & Dean?” They named their daughters Stella and Hattie.

Tori and Dean aside, most celebrities don’t seem to go for anything usual. Take Jerry Seinfeld and his wife Jessica who named one of their children “Shepherd.” I remember at the time someone on “The Today Show” remarked that, in Hebrew, “Shepherd” meant “Yes, please, I’d love a wedgie.”

Rob Morrow from the TV show “Numbers” has a child named Tu Morrow. Get it? I’m envisioning her playing the lead in a Broadway production of “Annie” one of these days.

The Naked Chef Jamie Oliver and his wife must’ve gotten into the cooking sherry when they stuck a daughter with “Daisy Boo.” Their other child, “Poppy Honey,” was likely inspired by a salad dressing.

Does anyone know who Shannyn Sossaman is? She’s supposedly an actress, but I have a feeling she got more press from the announcement that she’d named her baby “Audio Science.” My bet was on “Compact Disc,” so I lost about fifty bucks on that one.

Of course, there’s always Apple Martin, daughter of Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin. I heard they really wanted to call her “Apple Martini,” but they were just one letter shy. Dang it. I hate when that happens. A good alternative would’ve been “Doc Martin,” but did they listen to me? Nooooo.

Bob Geldof of “Live Aid” fame and his wife Paula Yates might have chugging apple martinis when they came up with these doozies for their darlings: Fifi Trixibelle, Peaches Honeyblossom, and Little Pixie. You have to wonder how those kids felt when their teachers called their names to check them into class.

A recent study showed that kids with the easiest names to pronounce are more likely to succeed in life. I can see how that could be helpful.

Sometimes I think George Foreman had it right. Just name every kid “George,” and you’ll make it easy on everyone. Although you have to wonder what happens at Thanksgiving dinner when someone says, “Hey, George, pass the gravy!” Do they all dive for the gravy boat at once?

P.S. For more on celebrity baby names, check out this page on the Babyfit web site.

How Making A Book Is Like Making A Baby

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By (the almost five months’ pregnant) Susan McBride

I’m following Maggie Barbieri’s lead this week. On Wednesday, she talked about how dieting and writing are linked. Since I’m not dieting (um, quite the opposite) and am lacking in fresh ideas to blog about, I thought I’d discuss how similar pregnancy and writing are. Yes, I’m serious. Not that writing books gives anyone swollen ankles, sleepless nights, or giant bellies (wait a minute, yes, it can!); but there are lots of ways conjuring up a literary baby and creating a human baby are quite alike. 

1) Both take a certain amount of time to gestate. Sure, there are authors who write books in two weeks, but I’m not one of them. And, honestly, does anyone not believe that those authors are aliens? Most of us need a period of months—for some, years—to let an idea percolate and write it up as a proposal with the requisite sample chapter before we present it to our agents (who in turn show our editors). Once we’ve got the thumbs-up (picture getting a plus sign on a pregnancy test stick), we focus on little else but the story, growing it little by little. If we take care of ourselves and don’t do anything reckless, our babies can develop into something viable and real.

2) There are aches and pains along the way. Who hasn’t gotten physical pains while toiling away on their latest opus? Like a backache, stiff neck, or cramp in the calf (or in the brain)? Just like with pregnancy, writing can be hard on the body which is why it’s always good to get plenty of rest and take lots of breaks. (FYI, breaks are those periods when writers get up from their chairs to stretch, vacuum, do laundry, run to the grocery store, break up a fight between cats, call our mothers, and so on.)

3) It’s impossible not to talk about your baby’s progress. Once you feel secure that your baby has progressed to a certain point (say, 100 pages, which we’ll call “the end of the first trimester”), you can’t help gushing to your friends about it. You thrive on encouragement and advice. Yapping about the last chapter you figured out gives you a high, like sharing the news of your baby’s heartbeat. You’re even compelled to gossip about how a secondary character—patterned after your crazy aunt Martha—has become an unapologetic scene stealer. And if you have an author-friend who’s on the same deadline as you, you constantly compare the size of your bump…um, your word count.  Yep, writers and mommies, we’re a competitive lot.

4)  You worry about how your baby will be perceived by the world.  Does any expectant mother not have twinges of anxiety about whether or not her child will do well in life?  Will he or she have friends, be accepted?  It’s the same with a book.  Even during the writing process, you have moments where you think, “Will anyone else appreciate this?  Will it be loved or hated?”  Vicious reviews are like bullies.  Writers–like moms–know they’re out there.  You just have to hope and pray that the meanest ones stay away from your kid.

5) There’s no elation quite like reaching “The End.”  When you’re finally done—when you’ve given that final push—all you want to do is smile…and cry…and sleep…and imagine the day when you’ll see your baby all dressed up in a pretty cover—I mean, in an adorable onesie. You can’t wait to show off your amazing creation everywhere you go and post photos ad nauseum on Facebook. Then you can look back at all the months it took to bring your baby into the world and think, “Yep, it was all worth it.”

Four Very Important (and Sometimes Strange) Things I Learned from My Mother

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By Susan McBride

I feel a little like a copycat after Laura Spinella wrote that wonderful post about her mother last Friday.  Not only was it Friday the 13th, but it was her mom’s 83rd birthday (hope it was a happy one!).  Tomorrow is my mom’s 75th birthday.  So that she doesn’t feel left out, I figured I’d pen a piece in her honor, all about some very important life lessons I’ve learned from her.  Let’s just say, they’re invaluable (or at least chuckle-worthy).  Here goes!
Lesson #1:  Threats Don’t Work
I remember one particular time in my young life when I was furious with my mother…for what, I can’t remember.  I was about 10 or 11, and I recall very clearly telling her how she’d pissed me off and then letting her know I was running away.  Not only did she basically say, “Terrific,” I think she offered to help me pack.  I ended up leaving the house, racing across the lawn and down to the grassy triangle up the street, and climbing a tree so I could see the house.  I was certain she’d run outside crying hysterically and shouting at the top of her lungs, “Susan!  Sweetheart, I’m so sorry!  Please, come back!”  I don’t know how long I sat in that tree, waiting and watching for her, but it had to be at least an hour (which felt like days).  My pride wounded and stomach growling, I finally slunk inside and found her in the kitchen.  “I see you’re back in time for dinner,” she said. “It would’ve been a shame to give the dog your meatloaf.”
Lesson #2:  Don’t Troll Mom’s Bathroom for Empty Boxes
I bought what was surely a fabulous present for my mother one Christmas long ago but I needed an empty box in which to stuff and wrap it.  So, of course, I poked around my parents’ master bathroom (this was before The Container Store, you see).  Lo and behold, on a shelf in the linen closet, I found a cardboard box that was light blue with tiny white flowers all over it. Gorgeous!  It wasn’t until Mom unwrapped the box and began laughing that I learned the box once contained Tampax tampons. Not sure at that point I even knew what that meant. But she said that next time I needed an empty box, I should just ask.
Lesson #3:  When it’s Dad versus a Kitten, the Kitten Wins
We always had at least one dog in the house.  When I was really little, it was a cocker spaniel named Cindy.  As I got older, we had a couple of golden retrievers and a giant mutt named Puppy.  At some point after my sister and I were in grade school, we started asking for a kitten.  My mom thought that was a grand idea.  My dad was not so keen.  “It’s either me or a cat,” he very sternly told us all one night at family dinner.  My mom replied, “You’re going to lose there, buster,” then asked us, “So is it a kitten or your father?”  My sister and I looked at each other, grinned, and squealed, “Hooray, we’re getting a kitten!”  And we did.
Lesson #4:  Don’t Dump a Guy Just Because He Wears Weird Shoes
When I was a sophomore in high school, I dated a senior who was brilliant (he went to the Air Force Academy), talented (he played piano like a pro), athletic (he was a star on the soccer team), and hunky.  He also wore desert boots when no one else was wearing desert boots.  For some reason, that bothered me enormously. Superficial, I know. But then again, I was 15. My mom kept saying, “Don’t break up with this wonderful boy over a pair of shoes.”  But I did anyway.  Fast forward 26 years to when I met Ed. He used to wear this motorcycle jacket—a real one, with hard pads that made the shoulders stand out like a linebacker—only he didn’t ride a motorcycle.  (Oh, he had one. It was just not drivable and still resides in his parents’ garage because he won’t get rid of it.) My friends teased him about it unmercifully.  The meanies. But Ed wore it anyway.  He also had a neon-green striped shirt he donned for Christmas Eve dinner at my folks’ the first time they met him. The next morning, Mom asked, “So, what about that green shirt?”  I felt the same way about it as I did the motorcycle jacket.  Yuck.  But thank goodness I wasn’t 15 any more.  I recognized and appreciated all the wonderfulness of Ed that had nothing to do with his clothes.  To this day, I’m so glad I didn’t dump Ed over something as superficial as a silly jacket or a fluorescent green shirt.  I would have missed out on the best thing in my life.

  

Not sure what the moral is to any of this except that moms are sly creatures.  They know things—sometimes strange things—and we can learn from them if we pay attention.  Seeing as how I’m going to be a mom myself, maybe I really need to write more of this stuff down.  Or make up some new stuff. 

My Writing Resolutions for 2012

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by Susan McBride

I used to make New Year’s resolutions annually.  Until I realized I didn’t really stick to them.  By the end of January, they were forgotten, buried under deadlines and other craziness.  This year, I’m not even going to try to pin down things in my personal life that I’d like to tackle, other than to deliver a healthy baby in June, meet all my obligations as best I can, and thoroughly enjoy every day as much as humanly possible.
Instead, I decided to make a few resolutions regarding my writing that I want to strive for in 2012 and each year after.  Since this is the perfect place to share them (so you all can check on me later and see how I’m doing!), here they are:
**To boldly go where no man has gone before!  (Well, at least where this woman hasn’t gone before!) Yes, like the opening sequence in “Star Trek,” I want to tackle new galaxies in my writing life.  I want to keep trying new things and writing books that I haven’t written before (or even read in some cases).  It’s always scary taking on a path that isn’t familiar.  But I’m finding that I thrive on it.  It’s a risk, yes, and I realize I’m taking a gamble with every novel I write that isn’t a series or that encroaches on new turf, but it gets my blood pumping.  I get excited just thinking about stretching my creativity and seeing how far I can push myself.
**To stop worrying about reviews.  I want to stop feeling compelled to check Amazon and other places, only to break out in hives because someone gave my latest literary baby one-star and said it’s the worst piece of crap they’ve ever seen. I write because I can’t imagine doing anything else.  It feeds me.  It drives me.  I would write even if Ed and my mom were the only ones reading.  Knowing that a hunk of the book-buying population will never warm to me does not affect how I work.  I don’t think about it when I’m composing, not one bit (although I know authors who do—one who even told me he considers readers’ suggestions about how he should approach characters and plotlines while he’s writing).  All bad reviews do is make me feel lousy personally. So I need to follow in the footsteps of Laura Spinella and Maggie Barbieri who make a point to avoid reading reviews. If I can wean myself in 2012, that will be a very good thing.
**To do a better job at setting my deadlines so that I’m not working on two projects at once in tandem with a new book release and a million other things.  It’s amazing how much I feel like Superwoman when events on my schedule are a year away.  But once life starts happening—say, you get pregnant!—and other book-related demands crop up, suddenly there’s not enough time in the world.  I have always prided myself on getting things done on time, if not early.  So it’s been a challenge this past year, juggling everything and making sacrifices.  I need time for my real life and my book life…and a few moments to breathe in between.
I feel so fortunate to be doing what I love every day of my life.  I just want to make the experience better and better in every way possible.  Oh, yeah, and did I mention I need to work on stressing out less?  I’m definitely better than I was at that a year or two ago, but I’m still not close to achieving my black belt in Zen.
Happy New Year, everyone!  Any resolutions you want to share?