Midnights, March: 15

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It’s so annoying when I say things like “I’LL TRY AGAIN TOMORROW,” because tomorrow keeps turning into today and all those things I said I’d do have to get done even though the only thing I want to do is slink to the ground muttering, “But I am le tiiired.”

Albie slept in this morning and Bill was home to occupy his wiggly little bottom, so I did some writing. I DID IT. I went through a story I’ve been working on for months (years? everything is a blur) and I filled in the gaps between scenes. It is not good writing. I literally just wrote, “Then this happens. Then this happens. And then, this.” But it’s story. I’m getting it done. I’m plastering over the holes; I’ll paint them neatly later.

MAYBE TOMORROW.

Midnights, March: 14

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Friday the 13th and my sisters have been texting spooky stories like it's the old days, all of us tucked into our beds in one room, staring at the ceiling in the dark, silent and breathless and shivering while the eldest scares the bejeebers out of us. 

I pulled up an old first draft today—only 6,000 words, but still. I read it over, appreciating a few sentences, feeling excited to work on it again. However, the wiggly curiosity of an eight-month-old made this all but impossible—at least while he was awake. Unfortunately, I'm still at the point where I need to sleep when he sleeps, so there isn't much time other than…well, right now. Three in the morning. When the brain is the soup.

Yet people make writing work even under conditions far more awkward and challenging than this. So I will try again tomorrow.

Midnights, March: 13

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I made the mistake of reading another author's newsletter.

I'm ashamed to admit this, but I can be a real Petty Penelope at times. A real Envious Emile. The green-eyed monster is my emergency contact, and it encourages all my worst impulses. 

So when I read that this self-published author whom I like and admire is being picked up by a reputable foreign publisher, I felt happy for that author. I did. They've worked hard. Their books are great. They deserve all this success and more.

But…then…again.

Wouldn't it feel good, in a twisted sort of way, if they weren't quite as successful as they're turning out to be? Wouldn't a big dollop of schadenfreude just hit the spot right about now? The better angel of my nature has been on a smoke break for a while now, and it's given me plenty of time to nurture a raging inferiority complex. It's beginning to fester nicely.

Listen, green has always been my color, but this is hardly a flattering shade. If I put half as much energy into my own work instead of gorging myself on the sourest of grapes, maybe I'd have another book published by now. 

That is harsh. But no less true for it.

Midnights, March: 9

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I know that there are plenty of other writer-mothers out there who, by eight months postpartum, were fully back into a writing routine. I can picture them, hunched in the dim light of a late-night nursing session, typing away, hitting their word counts, getting it done. 

I am not one of those women. 

I’m built different. 

Worse.

“Every path is different, Carrie,” they tell me. “Don’t stress about it. Just stay in your lane. Moisturize. Hydrate.” 

That’s too slippery. I don't need all that stuff; I just want to be over the eight-month dry spell that started the day I pressed “print” on this baby. [AHAHA SUCH A GROSS METAPHOR WHY DID I EVEN THINK OF THAT—although there was a bit of a paper jam at one point—APPARENTLY 3-AM-CARRIE HAS NO FILTER.]

I was so fruitful while I was pregnant. What happened? “MAYBE,” I hear you say, “YOU’RE SLEEP-DEPRIVED.” But that’s not it. Not entirely. Maybe it's simply that nothing I will ever create for the rest of my life could possibly compare to this sweet boy. He is my tiny masterpiece, the babbling-drooling-giggling pinnacle of my creative abilities. Maybe that's why it's so painful now to read over my writing. “This isn't good enough,” I mutter with mounting frustration, but I don't know how to make it better. I read and I learn and I practice, but still the writing doesn't get there. What am I looking for? What will be good enough? Is it a problem with story or prose? 

Eight months later, I'm still not sure. 

Meanwhile, the work waits.

Midnights, March: 8

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What does it mean exactly when someone says they “woke up in a cold sweat”? I've woken up sweaty, but it's never been cold. But it sounds wrong to say you woke up in a hot sweat. 

Well, anyway. I just woke up in a hot sweat. 

I've been listening to a podcast (unusual for me) that goes behind the scenes of a certain 2010s sitcom about quirky roommates living in LA. Sometimes they’ll have writers come on and describe what it was like in the writers’ room, and they all talk about the exhausting process of pitching and filming pages of alternate jokes for every episode. The sheer amount of material this would generate for a 24-episode season is staggering, but it does lend itself to a fresher and less judgmental environment. It pushes past the more cliche first impulses and gets right into the weird stuff. 

In another life, I would've tried to make it as a comedy writer on a show like this. It would have been terrifying, but in a good way. Maybe. Like boot camp for writing jokes.

I wonder if I could finagle that type of environment for myself now. The urgency of writing to a deadline (i.e. before the baby wakes up); the freedom and pressure that come with pitching alts upon alts; trusting the editing process to bring the right combination together in the end. 

My current process isn’t entirely dissimilar. Just that I’ve created an environment I’d describe as more agonizing than fun. For instance, is “tepid sweat" funnier than “hot sweat”? I think it is, plus it has that ear-pleasing assonance, but instead of putting several options in brackets and setting them to stew over a mental cookfire, I will stop mid-flow and obsess until it's RIGHT. Sure there's a dopamine hit when I solve the problem—if I can solve it—but the rigidity of this approach probably curbs a lot of creativity.

I can't recreate the collaborative nature of a writers’ room for myself, though. There's something to that instant feedback on a joke. I've tried reading bits to the dogs, but they just stare at me impassively. And Albie’s really in more of a physical comedy phase right now. I guess I could try co-working, but I imagine people would get annoyed if I kept demanding more punchlines about sweat while they’re just trying to do their spreadsheets in peace (clearly I have no idea what people with Real Jobs actually do).

[Edit from the next morning: The phrase is “break out in a cold sweat.” You wake up “drenched in sweat”—no mention of the temperature. That type of sloppy mistake would've never happened in a writers’ room!]

Midnights, March: 6

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Do you think Hemingway ever said “It's my way or the Heming-way”? I hope so, though I can't imagine it at all. Ol’ Ernie the punster.

They say sleep deprivation is tantamount to drunkenness. Of course, they say this in regard to driving impairment, but I wonder if it would also apply to another Hemingway quote: “Write drunk; edit sober.” If so, then these little entries may just turn out to be my finest work.

Midnights, March: 2

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That was pretty bold, Yesterday's Carrie, to assume me capable of whipping up something funny at 3 am. This is an hour for scoundrels and thieves. (What does that even mean? I have no idea. I'm so tired.)

I used to do my best writing at this time of night. But now? Well, I just tried to mentally break down a sandbox to a 1:16 scale model, but something definitely went wrong along the way, because this thing got tiny. I guess I could use it as a mental ashtray. But why did I try that in the first place? To what end? From what possible beginning? Thoughts are squirrelly this time of night.

I'm not funny at 3 am anymore. Rather, you can't wake up at 3 am and be funny. You can stay up this late and be very funny, but an alarm set for the wee hours is not conducive to humor.

When I pick Albie up to feed him, I know he's extra hungry when he manages to dive to the side in the air so that he's horizontal in my arms. “Allow me,” he says, saving me the trouble of shifting him into position. “Shall we start with the left side tonight?” It is adorable—and slightly embarrassing that my infant son has the type of core strength I could only dream of. 

Midnights, March: 1

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The title of this post is a misnomer: I'm actually writing these at 3 am after sneaking down the hall to feed my seven-month-old son. We snuggle into an honest-to-goodness wooden rocking chair with beautiful swirling sweeping carvings of ginkgo leaves and a homey creak when I stand up. Albie has a wee snack to tide him over till morning while I write a little something on my phone. It's not the neatest system—should I be gazing down beatifically at his perfect face instead of squinting into the blue light? Probably. Alas. May the poor, neglected face forgive me.

The return to writing is new. Until a few days ago, I would stumble in here and do my best just to stay awake by reading or scrolling or letting dark thoughts prop my eyes open. I can't say what exactly brought me back to a place where I could write again; I'm certainly not any less tired than I was before. Maybe it was a change in the weather (the last day of February granted us a glorious, warm afternoon drenched in golden late-winter light, and I have a week of rain to look forward to). Maybe it was just time doing its work (we go through seasons, you know, of consuming-mulling-creating). 

Whatever the cause, I'm feeling better these days, folding motherhood into myself rather than the other way around. And writing. In a dark room at 3 am while rocking, rocking, because there is no other time for it. 

And it feels like letting out the longest sigh.

I'll try to write something funny tomorrow.

HOW TO WRITE A QUERY LETTER

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Dear Prospective Literary Agent,

How are you? I am well.

Nope, that’s dumb. Forget I said that.

___

Dear Agent,

I have written a book. How, you ask? I have no idea. Life is a mystery and I am confused all of the time.

___

Dear Agent,

I don’t suppose you’d like to represent a book that I wrote, would you?

No, I thought not. It’s fine. If I were you, I wouldn’t represent it, either.

___

Dear Agent,

HOW DOES ANYONE EVEN WRITE ONE OF THESE THINGS??

___

Dear Agent,

I feel more than a little unequipped to write this letter, in part because, up till a few days ago, I thought query was pronounced like “very.” In my defense, “quee-ree” is difficult to say and it sounds ridiculous.

___

Dear Agent,

Attached please find a picture of a check that I am sending to you as we speak. Don’t think of it as a bribe; think of it as—

Nope. Bad idea. Reel it in, Muller.

___

Dear Agent,

It’s snowing today. Out of my kitchen window, I can see a little boy playing in his backyard across the alley. He’s balancing on a swing by his stomach, limbs akimbo, twisting the swing up and letting it twirl him around and around as it untwists. It’s the tired swing of a boy who’s been playing in the snow for a long time and whose range of motion is restricted by too many layers.

Watching him gives me perspective. I’m so frightened to send this book I wrote into the world to be judged—not because I think the book is irredeemably terrible, but because I’m worried I’m not good enough. I don’t have enough followers; I hate to network; I have no contacts in the publishing industry. Now that the fun part of writing is over, I’ve been doing a tired tummy swing for months now.

But you have the power to change all that. You can read this query letter, skim the first pages of the book, email me for the full manuscript, call me to discuss and make an offer of representation, pitch the book to publishers, secure a contract, and in only two to three years from now, this sad, slow, twisting swing can finally stop! WHATTAYA SAY?

___

Dear Agent,

Ever think about how weird the word “parallelogram” is? Try saying it. So weird, right?

Please represent me.