50 Tries

Actually, I Would Love to Put FHM on my Resume

Maybe I should just start pitching wildly— soon I'll have 30 essays without a home.

Media Bistro has entries on how to pitch to This American Life, Slate, Salon, McSweeney's, the Village Voice, FHM, the Boston Globe Magazine, Studio 360, Reader's Digest, Premiere, and Entertainment Weekly.

As apparent from FHM appearing on the list, I'm feeling a modicum of desperation.

Cancer Love!

Okay, 735 very mediocre words.

Maybe I should submit a real essay to the Modern Love column. They publish what appears to be a submissions e-mail address right at the bottom. Everyone loves a plucky he-loved-me-through-cancer story.

Possibly. For all that I've tried to become numb to rejection, sincerety seems like too big a risk. Maybe I'll just send the satire there instead.

Judging Kiersten

I'm so blocked. And I know how to deal with this: just fucking write something.

I don't have patience for people who complain about writer's block. Unless your arms are broken and your helper monkey's sick and you can't work your computer with your tongue, nothing is preventing you from writing. It may suck, but just get something down on the page and work from there. If you're still feeling blocked, go work in a coal mine for a week and then tell me how hard it is to sit down at your desk and gaze out the window in thought.

So I've been sitting here "working" since 9:30 this morning. And I'm not using quotes because I've been Web surfing or playing solitaire. I'm using quotes because what I am writing is boring drivel. I feel nauseous. No one is in the house and I want to lie down on the sofa and watch soap operas.

I just can't let myself do that until I have 600 words, now matter how bad they are. Right now I'm only at 327, including the outline, temporary title, and my name.

I hate to admit this, but I learned one of my most important lessons from a "Judging Amy" episode: people do what they want to do, and the rest is just excuses. I want to be a "real" writer, so I've got to write this damned book.

Ritalin time!

Bad Ideas

TWoP version of my life. Restaurant review. Modern Love column about a woman and her cat.

I Got Nuthin.

Seriously. CT scan tomorrow. Mouth sores. Persistent sense of impending doom. That's pretty much it.

Let's see...the New Yorker rejected #24 (The Ethicist: A Hummer of a Problem) yesterday. This afternoon I left the house for the first time in four days to go to the nursery. I wanted to buy some replacements for the rose bushes that died over the winter. They didn't have any. So even though I have sworn NOT to keep buying esoteric roses that are fragile and delicate and therefore succumb to blackspot and caterpillars and every sort of pestilence, I came home and went directly to the Uncommon Rose Web site and ordered two more, with stripes. I am learning, however, so I'll replace ONE in the front yard with something that's supposed to be more hardy.

Oh, and Kylie bit me this afternoon.

Hate

I hate that it takes me five minutes every morning and every night to take all my pills. I hate worrying that if I miss a dose of Tagamet it means I might die. I hate the neuropathy coming back to my left hand and that after nine months of chemotherapy I've started tasting metal again.

Adam's in Boston with Kylie. I miss them. And I hate it that Kylie is going to come back, and it's going to be grandma grandma grandma, and she won't even notice me.

29. No Princesses Allowed

This very late screed against Disney's "Princesses" marketing went straight to the Times, instead of the New Yorker. I can't decide whether it's really good or really ridiculous, but it's an argument I've been thinking about for a long time, so I'm glad that I've made it and I can be done with it.

Yesterday, hopefully, was my last chemotherapy treatment. I was thinking about a message to whomever reads these submissions: I have cancer; just publish this. Do it because it's good, do it because you feel sorry for me, I don't care. Hopefully I don't have cancer anymore, but do it anyway. I'm tired.

Yes: do it because you feel sorry for me. I'm comfortable with that.

Tired Metaphors

Didn't submit the essay today.

I would like to apologize for the "gym bag" metaphor in the Shih-Tzu poem. It is very tired and should have been removed.

Swings

I've written a screed. I tried to emulate a Martin Amis essay, "Tennis Personalities," from Fierce Pajamas, so—blame him.

I'm not sure this is the kind of thing that they currently publish in Shouts & Murmurs, but the other 28 essays I've written haven't been, either, so I guess I've got nothing to lose.

Unfortunately I was too sick today to finish. I was still revising when the babysitter had to leave, and then, sitting at the dinner table with Kylie, I crashed. Now I'll have to submit it tomorrow, after chemo, and who knows whether that will happen or not. I've kept Friday clear, though, so hopefully I can work then.

My available energy was used up taking Kylie on a playdate this morning. Playdates are aptly named; they really do feel like dating, which is unpleasant. But Kylie blew me away.

Her little friend, Leela, had been on the swing for a while; Kylie wanted to swing too, but the other swings were full. When Leela got off to go to the slide, Kylie got on. Leela quickly decided she wanted  the swing back, demanded its return, and then ended up crying in her babysitter's arms. Kylie saw this, stopped swinging, and came over to Leela and the babysitter. "What's wrong, Weewa?" she asked. "What's the mattew? Don't cwy, Weewa. You can have the swing. Don't fuss, Weewa." Then she gave her the swing.

It's the first time I saw her sacrifice for another person, and the first time I saw her display compassion. I felt so proud of her and happy for her, at the same time: I think she's turning into a kind person and a happy person. What I really care about is the latter, but she didn't mind making the sacrifice at all, and I don't think there are many happy people who are burning with rage and envy (something very easy for a three year old to do over a swing, trust me).

I hope the steroids boost me up tomorrow. I really want to just chuck it all and climb into bed.

On a seemingly unrelated topic, I bought a $12 orchid at Target a few weeks ago, and decided I was committed to keeping the damn thing alive. I checked the Web for instructions, and all the sites basically said "Orchids are easy! Just find the right bright yet indirect light, water at occasional but unspecific times, set the plant on a tray filled with water to humidfy it, and place a fan in the room for ventilation."

Okay, I thought, lots of cut flowers cost more than $12, so maybe it will die but I'll give it my best shot. After a rocky start—two or three of the buds dropped off—the remaining buds are blooming.

So two kind of phenomenal things happened today. And I won the stupid fish game that has pretty much destroyed my Palm Pilot.

28. Diary of a Desperate Housewife

This piece feels adequate now. On a positive note, it has a New Yorker-ish feel to it. Adequately funny, sort of dry, perhaps the tiniest hint of misogyny.

Lately the only thing I feel like eating is chocolate chip ice cream. Kind of makes it difficult to eat at all, since I don't want Kylie having ice cream all day. But my oncologist was pleased that I've put some weight back on, so I guess I'll just have to keep sneaking into the freezer when she's not looking.

I just took the 'Which Housewife Are You?' quiz at the "Desperate Housewives" Web site. Apparently, I'm Susan:

You always mean well, but somehow things don't work out as you planned. It doesn't matter. You take your tumbles with good grace and always come up smiling. But try to remember you're the grown-up in the family.

I am curiously flattered.

I assumed that I'd come up as Bree. The part about always meaning well is accurate. But I don't generally come up smiling, and I couldn't be more aware that I'm a grown-up.

Anyway, I really like the jeans Teri Hatcher is wearing in the picture.