Now That You Mention It...

30 Going on 17

Here lies: The Post in Which I Provide Evidence That I Am Actually Seventeen.

I've been getting carded a lot lately. A LOT. Now, before you all think I'm bragging, not only am I getting asked for ID, I'm getting asked for a second form. Sometimes I have one, sometimes I don't. Which equals the waitress refusing to serve me and I have to watch while my husband drinks his Guinness. So don't think I'm saying this is a fun thing for me.

What I find hilarious is that most of the times when this happens, I have my kid next to me. And my husband doesn't get carded. So, apparently, I look like I'm his seventeen year old girlfriend. Which would either mean that he's a single father who trolled the local high school for chicks, or that I'm a teenaged mother out with my creepy sex offender, thirty year old boyfriend.***

So, instead of becoming indignant about all of this, I decided to reflect on my True Mental Age. And, honestly, there's no way I'm actually thirty.

Here's why:

I use expressions like "fo' sho'" and "legit." Sentence: "I legit love my new Ugg boots, fo sho." I wish I could say this was an exaggeration.

I have recently embraced the high waisted skirt trend.

I shop at Forever 21. (While my husband covers his ears and mutters something about "loud music and kids today."

I admired the outfit of a fifteen year old yesterday and asked her where she bought her jeans.

When visiting my parents house, I wear my sister's old freshman-year-in-high-school Doug Bruno basketball t-shirts with no makeup on. Prepare yourself for the youngness:

  Yes, that cake really does say "30."

***Maybe I can parlay this attribute into a new job. I am so going to apply to be the bait on Dateline's: To Catch a Predator. Because I can totally say, "C'mon inside! I made cookies! I just need to put this laundry down." Like, fo sho. 

Festivalin'

A couple of weeks ago, I signed copies of my book for six hours at the Cincinnati Books by the Banks Festival. Which was fantastic, except Six.Hours. I honestly am not sure if I spelled my own name correctly toward the end. So, if you got a book and my name looks like this: Maurine Lapinsky, sorry. Like I said, Six.Hours.

I did get the wonderful chance to meet Jennifer Weiner, authoress extraordinaire. She was funny, cool and way more down-to-earth than she should be, considering her amazing career. She bought a copy of my book and had me sign it, which was one of my most surreal moments as an author to date. Also, she tweeted about one of the cons to appearing at a festival: people picking up your book, hearing your pitch, reading the back cover, discussing it, and then putting it down and walking away. But, it happens. And it was kind of nice to hear that it doesn't just happen to those of us not on the NYT bestseller list!

And then, on Friday, I finally finished the rough draft of Maureen's Super Seekrit Book About Traveling and...Stuff. Obviously, there is no title yet. And let me just say this: this draft is very, very rough. But I'm hoping to have it done and polished up sometime around Thanksgiving.

Oh, and overtheweekendIturned30butwe'renotgoingtotalkaboutthat,ok?

Two Years

Two years ago, a new mom sat on her couch, typing away at a laptop. She could barely keep her eyes open, as her three month old still woke up every two hours to eat. But, now, thankfully, her newborn was fast asleep in his cradle swing, pumped with so much milk, he could’ve floated away to Aruba. She keeps herself plied with cups and cups of chocolate roast coffee. She has to, she’s writing her second book. Her first one hasn’t sold yet, and she won’t admit it, but she still desperately believes in it. Yet, she forges ahead, knowing that the only thing she can control is her own output. She loves her new book and can’t wait to finish it.

Today, a mom with a toddler sits on her couch, typing on a laptop. Exhausted from chasing her two-year-old around during the day, she’s grateful that her son sleeps for twelve hours at night. He’s asleep in his crib, napping for the next two hours. She keeps herself plied with Diet Coke, herbal tea and Dunkin’ Donuts coffee—none of the flavored stuff, thanks—that’s for amateurs. She has to stay alert, she’s writing her third book. Her first two sold. One’s been released already and she just saw the cover for the second. She’s not sure yet if she’ll be able to continue writing full-time for the near future. Yet, she forges ahead, knowing that the only thing she can control is her own words. She loves her new book and can’t wait to finish it.

From then to now, October is still cold and rainy, the leaves still change. My son still makes me want to inject coffee directly into my veins, but he also makes me laugh at the most unexpected moments. Book publishing is still a scary world, plagued with much uncertainty.

But most importantly, what hasn’t changed is my will to write books, and my knowledge that I was meant to do this.

So I sit here, in front of my laptop and push out words. And every now and then, I swear I can still smell chocolate roast coffee.

Lorenzo Lamas Drilled a Hole in My Brain and All I Got Was This Blog Post

I'm baack!

Back home and back to writing hard-core. See, this week my life took a bit of a Wisconsin-related detour. My family and I decided to head up to Lake Geneva for a little mid-week vacay amongst the cold, choppy lake water and yellow-tinged leaves.

I wore a sweatshirt for like three days straight. I drank apple cider wine from a farm. I sighed and looked out the window while contemplating plot twists. I bribed my kid with about 4,567,654 sugar cookies.

Basically, a good time was had by all.

But, now, it's time to get back to work. I'm about halfway done with my next book, the book that entails a cruise ship and...other stuff. Seekrit Stuff. From here on out, we can refer to it as Maureen's Super Seekrit Effed Up Cruise Book, m'kay?

I've been able to write a good amount today, despite having accidentally lowered my IQ by watching "Leave it to Lamas" this morning. That's Lamas with one "l." (Side note: a show about llamas would be awesome, no?) It's about Lorenzo Lamas and his weird family, including his daughter who was on The Bachelor or something. And a crazy ex-wife who walks around topless and ices her chest with frozen chicken cutlets.

Or something.

Anyway, it came on, and much like a junkie to heroin, I couldn't stop. It's bad enough that my husband forces me to watch My Antonio, but now my poor brain has the knowledge of the existence of these people in my brain.

I'm assuming that's why I called MTV's Fat Camp "riveting" without a hint of sarcasm. Followed by True Life: I Like Being Fat.

At this rate, next week I'm going to be watching Maury Povich episodes for social etiquette. So, if you hear me shouting "Ya'll don't know me!" and "Don't hate! Don't hate!" in public, it's time for an intervention.

Chick Lit: Zombiefied

*Disclaimer:* What follows is merely My Opinion. It in no way reflects any trends, info I've received from publishing folks or anything other than Maureen's Musings.

Ahem.

I used to read chick-lit. And by that, I mean my bookshelves were filled with Pepto-Bismol-pink covers decorated with shoes and handbags on the front. Circa 2000-2002, I bought probably 99% of the chick lit books on the market--especially if they were prominently displayed in co-op space in Borders.

I still remember the WTF feeling the first time I read Marian Keyes' Watermelon--WTF because, DUDE. Books can be hilarious, touching, romantic and voice-y? Why didn't someone tell me this earlier? Immediately hooked by the sympathetic, funny narrator, I loved how the book spent so much time in the character's head. And then I read Bridget Jones's Diary and my poor little twenty-something head nearly popped off.

I always knew I wanted to be a writer, yet I doubted I had the ability or interest to pull a book off. Until I read those two books and realized one thing: I didn't want to write all those other kinds of books. I wanted to write Watermelon and Bridget Jones.

Of course, by the time I finally got my writing butt in gear, chick lit was officially "dead," thanks to too many copycat books with wooden characters and knock-off plots. And yeah, publishers should've pulled back. But they practically declared war on any women's fiction book that was even slightly commercial.

So me, like I'm sure a lot of readers, have been left in this limbo state--where most of the women's fiction involves a dead husband/baby or the like. Lately, I've turned to YA to fulfill my need for fun, high-concept books. And while I've had a blast reading them, I'm still yearning for adult lit.

I can only think of two books I've recently read (Allison Winn Scotch's Time of My Life and Sophie Kinsella's Remember Me?) that I would define as fun, commercial, high-concept women's fiction. Like I said, I'm sure there's more readers out there than just me who have a real thirst for these kinds of books.

I'd love for new-and-improved chick lit to make a resurgence. To emerge from the publishing graveyard. (Not like zombies or anything...although zombie chick lit might be quite entertaining. Girl meets boy, boy bites girl, girl has a thirst for brains and Manolos.)

Hopefully, the publishing pendulum will swing back and more commercial fiction will be bought and put on the shelves. Because while I love reading about high school, thirty-year-olds can be loads of comedic fun, too. (If you disagree, I'd like to show you some pictures from last weekend...)

Mojo-fied

Hey, guess what?

I like writing. No, really.

Well, I guess I should say that I FINALLY like writing again. A-freaking-men.

See, what no one tells you after the OMGBOOKDEALYAY! is that you might have, shall we say, performance anxiety about writing your next one. Because you've been through agent revisions, editor revisions, galleys, copyedits, negative reviews on Amazon ALL IN CAPS with lots of typos, Publisher's Weekly reviews, etc. So, pretty much, there's no more rose-colored glasses or "La, la, la, la...isn't publishing a book, like, fun?" And then scary things like sell-through, sales numbers, reserves against returns kick in and it's a wonder that anyone writes anything after their first book.

So it's taken me a long, long time to feel the writing mojo again, since I was way too self-aware for awhile. Being hyper-aware of market conditions, knowing what editors are acquiring and publishing trends are not good places to start a novel.

And then, I came up with this little idea. Actually, it's more like a Big Idea. It's quirky, weird, and has the potential to be totally hilarious. Like with A Bump, I don't worry about someone writing something similar, because it's all in how you tell the story--the voice of the characters.

At first, I was slogging through the beginning, way too concerned with making it "less funny" and more "meaningful." Which basically translated to my main character behaving as though she had a lobotomy and I wanted to repeatedly punch her in the face. And last night, I made an Important Decision. I'm just going to go for it. I'm going to not only make it funny, I'm going to make it farcical and crack myself up. There's going to be cameos of famous people--Dr. Phil, Oprah, Judge Judy, Maury Povich and may or may not have the line: "Shouldn't I have been able to take my Snuggie on this cruise?"

Basically, I'm going to write the book I want to read. (Gee, Maureen, what a bright idea. You are like so smart and stuff...since basically that's what you did with your first two books. You know, the ones that SOLD.)

And once I made that decision, the words started flowing. My main character actually spoke like a person and not Pinocchio. I laughed out loud as I wrote and read lines of dialogue to my husband. I connected back with my writing mojo. So look out publishing world, I is a'comin.'

So, kids, the moral of the story here is: Maureen is not bright. Until she totally is again.

I Actually Paid Money For This

So, this is the post that you knew was coming. I've been all "la-di-da-being-home-and-writing-is-fun." Today is the day where I remembered that yes, while writing is fun and being home with my son rocks, he's also TWO.

Let me back up.

Today was our first music class. (Laughing yet?) I assumed it would be a little bit of structure with a lot of, you know, making music and running around and stuff.

Uh, no.

First off, they combined registration for a few classes, so there were some older kids (like 3-4 years old) in the class. Who, apparently, understand direction and group play much better than two-year-olds. First, we sat in a circle for awhile--which, big shocker, my son didn't want to do. He was all, "You dragged me out of the house to sit around and talk?" So there was much flailing and whining.

We sang a couple of songs and clapped, to which he was all, "You crazy."

Then, we got out these sticks that you were supposed to bang on the floor. He took that to mean, "Use sticks in a nunchuck-like manner instead of banging on the pretend floor-drum."

We played with balls for a few seconds, before we had to collect them and put them in a bag. His reaction? "Dude. No. I'm so playing with these balls. Why would I want to put them in that stupid bag?" Followed by much whining and tantrumming and trying to pull the bag back out while the instructor gave me looks of "Your kid is the devil."

Finally, the instructor busted out the bubbles. Let's all say it together: Awwww SHIT. Again, five minutes of play time, followed by see-ya-later bubbles. He never quite grasped the concept of we-only-play-with-awesome-things-for-a-second-before-we-have-to-sit-in-a-circle-and-sing-again.

So, he punched me in the neck. And refused to give some doll a high-five at the end of class.

And then I had to carry him to the car, whilst screaming and flailing, because he wanted to run into the Senior Women's Jazzercise class.

Guess what? The class is every Thursday for 6 weeks and it's non-refundable. Which means this blog just got a whole lot more interesting...

Prepare for the Toddler Apocalypse

Long weekend is finally here! Three days of faboolous family time, coupled with some beer-drinkin'-and-boating (not at the same time, of course...) up in Wisconsin. Hopefully my kid won't throw the world's largest tantrum ever when forced to wear a lifejacket like he did last time. Or maybe I'll just strap him to the cooler. That'll float, right?

I'm about 20% done with my next book, another women's fiction piece. Of that 20% though, like 99.9% will need to be revised. So, kind of a good news/lots-of-work news sitch.

To kick off the weekend, my kid did something that made me feel like this:

  

What is it, you dare ask? He figured out how to get out his crib. By his damn self. One minute, I was happily typing away at my book, relishing the expected three hour naptime, the next minute, Hurricane Toddler blew by, clapping and cheering for himself.

Methinks this is one of the Plagues in the Toddler Apocalypse. Next up: figuring out how to remove childproof caps!

The Weekend I Drank Asbestos

I spent Friday night with my sister in college...and I think I've almost recovered. For one glorious night, my husband and re-lived a life of cheap drinks, puking frat boys and crowded bars with disgusting bathrooms. (And I'm not exaggerating when I say disgusting--one bar had crap in the sink and the overflowing pee from the toilet was at least two inches deep. Thank god I was wearing heels. How quickly we take for granted puke-and-pee free bathrooms with working toilets after graduation...)

Although a few of the restaurants and bars had changed, everything had remained constant. Well, everything except for the fact that we woke up at 9am and my sister said, "Why are you guys up so early? Is the sun even out yet?" as she buried her face into her pillow.

Ah. To be in college, well-rested and to only see early morning light under dire circumstances or right before you go to bed. We drove through town as we left, only the old people, church-goers and professors up and about.

Yet that wasn't even the moment where we felt the oldest. The night before, a freshman girl pointed to my husband and asked, "Whose dad is he?" I consoled him with the knowledge that the poor girl wasn't even old enough to buy lottery tickets yet. (Of course, will not mention that I was asked if I had graduated last year. AGING WIN!) He decided to take advantage of looking "not college age" and pretended to be a cop and started carding people in one of the bars. Much to my delight and my sister's mortification.

One of the greatest moments of the evening was when my sister's roommate toasted a Natural Light in the air and said, "Woo Hoo! To your book's main character--Clare Finnegan!" I was about to take a sip of my beer when some asbestos drops fell from the ceiling into my drink. You'd have thought that would deter me, but when in Rome...

Of course that was right before she tried to steal a neon beer sign from the bar and it electrocuted her, but still.

All Good Summers Must Come to an End...GAH!

I seriously can't believe that summer is almost over. How did Labor Day become less than two weeks away? And how did it only reach the mid-sixties this weekend in, um, AUGUST?

Not that this summer's been anything short of fabulous--lots of trips to the pool, a South Carolina vacation, festivals and some awesome book writing and editing. Speaking of which, I should have a release date for my second book, NOT READY FOR MOM JEANS hopefully soon, and then some yummy cover art soon after. Woo Hoo! This book-writin'-train just never stops!

But despite lots of fun things to look forward to, I still wish the summer wouldn't end. I know I'm not alone in this, as my son still refuses to believe our vacation is over, let alone summer. This is evidenced by the fact that he sadly plays on his deflated pool raft as if to say, "But ye were so full of air and summer fun a mere two weeks ago."