Led Zeppelin IV - Track 7

I’ve been fermenting kombucha for weeks.

I’ve packed fourteen pairs of leggings—and I don’t even work out.

I’ve steeped myself in self-tanner like a human tea bag to give my skin that just-spent-forty-years-in-the-sun glow.

“That’s rad,” I repeat in the mirror each morning. “That’s suuuper rad.”

I’ve been practicing my California Roll at every stop sign, even if I’m not turning right. Takes me forever to get places.

I have my brunch conversation topics all memorized—like, “How ‘bout them Santa Anas?” and “Remember when we were in high school and all the lockers were outside?” and “Mello-Roos, amirite?”

I’m bringing my winter coat in case the temperature dips below 60 at night.

I bought a flame-retardant coating to spray on my clothes before I leave the house each morning.

I’ve made a vision board consisting solely of In-N-Out secret menu items.

The 5 meets the 405 at the Y. The 5 meets the 405 at the Y. The 5 meets the 405 at the Y.

“No way,” I whisper under my breath while I drive. “Dude, that’s so gnarly.”

I’ve had the dryer on twenty-four hours a day to practice acting nonchalant during earthquakes.

I’ve hypnotized myself to forget what snow days, basements, and affordable housing are.

I’ve stocked up on books to read while I’m staying out of the water at the beach. The Pacific is just so cold, you know? And rough. And like, kind of gross?

My Rainbows haven’t left my feet in weeks.

I’m bringing an extra suitcase to fill with avocados and limes.

I’ve been practicing measuring distance in time instead of miles.

I’ve packed my brass knuckles in case I hear someone utter the words “SoCal,” “Cali,” or “The PCH.”

“It’s a dry heat,” I tell the lady at the checkout counter. “But it actually gets surprisingly cold at night.” She smiles politely. But she doesn’t understand.

I’m on my way, California. And this time, I brought my own grocery bags.

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The First Ten Pages

Sometimes you have great days at work, perched in your dark, cramped, oddly damp work nook like a small bird, typing away merrily. Then again, sometimes you must leave your work nook, pace the floor for hours like you’re the heroine in a Gothic novel, and eventually fall to the floor and writhe around for a while because of the impossible, gargantuan nature of the task you must complete.

For me, that impossible, gargantuan task is The First Ten Pages.

Before I explain, here’s a very short primer on Getting Published in the Traditional Manner (i.e. by a publishing house, as opposed to self-publishing):

  1. Write a book

  2. Send it to agents, along with a query letter and the first however-many-pages/chapters they request (commonly ten pages)

  3. If they like the query letter and first pages, they might request a full manuscript

  4. If they like the full manuscript, they might agree to represent you

  5. HOORAY! A MIRACLE!

  6. Make major edits to your already-majorly-edited book

  7. Wait while your agent…performs the rituals? Makes the sacrifices? This part is mysterious to me, as I have done most of my research on simply finding an agent and less about what happens afterward. Is the writer expected to perform a portion of the rituals, herself, like marketing?

  8. After waiting for months or even years, receive word that your book has been accepted by a publisher

  9. Celebrate! But only for a moment. Because now the real work begins.

As you can see, this whole operation sort of hinges on the query letter—basically a pitch for your book—and those first few pages agents read. Which is why I have been softly rocking back and forth for weeks now, staring at those pages, convinced that they sound trite and amateur, and also why, whenever anyone asks how writing is going, I get a slightly manic crook to my face and whisper, “Why? What have you heard?”

Because this limitation—just ten pages—is agonizing. If you’ve read this blog for any length of time, or if you know me in person and I’ve ever written you a letter, you’ll know that I like a lot of space to express myself (which is why I never did well on Twitter). This puts a lot of pressure on less than four percent of the book to entice and intrigue a reader.

THERE ARE SOME FUNNY BITS ONCE IT REALLY GETS GOING, I want to explain, EVEN IF THE BEGINNING ISN’T THAT STRONG. But you can’t say things like that in a pitch. You have to be CONFIDENT.

(Even though I am not confident.)

You have to be SURE.

(Even though I am not sure.)

You have to be ALL THE THINGS YOU SECRETLY FEAR YOU AREN’T AND NEVER COULD BE, LIKE SMART AND TALENTED AND INTERESTING AND WELL-SPOKEN AND CAPABLE OF WRITING AN ENGAGING BEGINNING TO A STORY THAT DOES NOT COMPLETELY SUCK.

(Even though, as you may have guessed, I secretly fear that I am none of those things.)

And so I sit here in the oddly damp dark and stare at these pages, not even reading them anymore, rocking softly back and forth. This is my life now. At least until I get so downtrodden and tired of looking at my own words that I say “Screw it” and send it off—imperfect, exposed, waiting to be judged.

So, yeah, writing is going super well, thanks for asking.

Thirteen

I spend a lot of time thinking and writing about what it was like to be young—maybe twelve to seventeen or so—specifically in the early 2000s, when we had AIM but no social media, Blockbuster but no streaming, and Destiny’s Child before Beyonce went solo. Last week I was home visiting my family and friends I made in junior high. Whenever I come home from those trips, the voice of Younger Carrie gets a little bit louder in my head. Sometimes while I’m writing, she’ll pop up next to me and say things like, “Wuzzup? Sooo, I don’t think that would really happen like that.”

“Um,” I reply saucily, “I beg to differ, young one. I remember what it was like. You don’t have to remind me. Besides, adding memories to a narrative is different. You have to, like…change it.”

“Or maybe your memory is going," she says, coloring in her nails with a Sharpie. “I hear that happens with old age.” Her tone is devastating.

I shift uncomfortably. “I mean, I know you’re trying to hurt my feelings a little bit, but that is actually a thing that has started happening. It’s—I’m a little worried about it.”

“How could you forget what it was like?” she says. “Oh, wait. Probably because you went to college and got married and stopped cutting your own hair, and now you think you’re too good for us.”

“Okay, listen,” I say. “I think that’s a little unfair. I haven’t changed that much. Look—I’m still wearing Converse! And look at this scraggly hair! I haven’t changed at all. I still write notes on my wrist, that Spiderman shirt that you’re wearing is in my closet right now—and I was just listening to Vertical Horizon!”

“Big whoop,” she says. “When was the last time you sat outside, looked up at the sky, and felt how magnificent the universe is? When was the last time you listened to Joni Mitchell while it was raining and wrote in your journal and felt like your soul was deep enough to hold the ocean? When was the last time you ran to the park when you were sad or stayed up all night talking to your friends about your lives and your feelings and your futures? When was your last pool party? Do you even remember how to fold a note? Do you even still make up dances just for funsies?“

“Come on, little C. I can’t—I’m an adult now. I can’t be doing things like that. People would think I was weird.”

“No duh! Oh, my GOD, Carrie. Like, are you even being serious right now? You are a fraud, you—you old lady! Why did you even want to grow up? Like, what is even good about it? All adults do is yell about avocado toast on the Internet and talk about self-care. It sounds boring.”

“Well, I—that is, it’s…TV’s gotten really…well, huh.” I think for a long time. “No standardized testing?”

She looks at me hard. “That’s one thing.”

“And,” I add, “no one tells me when to go to bed. So.”

“So when do you go to bed?”

“I…would prefer not to answer that.”

“I knew it,” she mutters. “Do you even smoke a long pipe?”

“I do not,” I say, “and I can’t remember why that was ever a thing we thought would happen when we got older.”

She laughs. “Me, neither. I guess you just don’t think random ideas are fun anymore. So, have fun being boring. It’s almost your bedtime, isn’t it?” She slinks away in withering disappointment. Probably off to write poetry, which she still thinks she’s pretty good at.

“Whatever, man!” I call after her, but she’s right. I have changed. I mean, I have a little more self-awareness now, which is generally useful, but I’m more self-conscious now than I ever was at thirteen. Back then, I didn’t care what people thought of what I did or said; I did what felt right, even if it was overly sentimental or silly or embarrassing, and I didn’t care if people looked at me weird.

Usually Younger Me isn’t so confrontational. She generally shows up just to whisper old inside jokes in my ear and then giggle hysterically. But it feels good to know she’s looking out for me—that is, whenever she’s not lurking next to a storm drain pipe like a troll or sticking cocktail umbrellas in her hair.

So, maybe not the best role model. But still.