For my whole life, writing has been part of who I am.
I wrote poetry in my youth; yearning, emotional verses mostly about boys, but also about my feelings. Genius like,
only troubled souls become writers.
Those who can’t deal with the real.
Deep, despondent hermits
Why didn’t my mother like me
Why didn’t my father listen
my kidney on my face
my heart in my fingers
All the world’s a stage
so put on a happy face.
Yep, I wrote that, decades ago. I know you’re amazed by my depth, right? Can’t you just feel the kidney on your face? Bahaha!
Sadly for the world of poetry, I moved on to sexy, fun novels with a bit a danger and mystery. Think Sydney Sheldon mixed with Danielle Steele. In one, the main character was stunning and incredibly smart with a striking, yet highly glorified, resemblance to the person who wrote her. I took those rejections quite personally.
For my short, undistinguished yet entertaining career, I worked as an advertising copywriter selling glamorous commodities like moisturizer and headache medicine. But the children took me away from all that, and now I work for me, my name is Ice Scream Mama.*
Sorry, Charlie. Got carried away there. (Extra scoops if you picked up the reference.)
Anyway, after having lost all ambition related to something other than a solid night’s sleep and a making it out of the house without pancake in my hair, I finally rediscovered myself with this blog. Blog. What does blog stand for anyway? Big Love Or Go? Bring Lots Of Goodies? Beings Letting Out Garbage? Ideas, anyone?
Now what was I talking about? Hmm. Give me a minute. Right. The blog. I love it. There’s pressure, there’s feedback, there’s structure and networking. There’s satisfaction, and it feels good.
I still have a brain! Hallelujah!!
So when two (Double yay!) of my essays were chosen for the most recent Life Well Blogged book, rainbow sprinkles filled my sky. I could barely control my excitement when I pulled it up on my Kindle.
There it was! An essay by me!
Wait, that’s not me. Crap. My name is spelled wrong. Wrong! I’m finally in print and it’s not me!!
I tried to have it fixed, of course, but was told that it probably couldn’t be corrected on Kindle. Still, they assured me that it was correct in the print version.
By the time my copy arrived, I was foaming at the mouth and practically ripped the envelope open with my teeth. Ohhh. It looked nice. I pet the cover lovingly.
Quickly, I flipped around and found one of my essays, “If you stop trying to touch my books, I’ll give you a cookie.” One of my favorite essay titles. Wait!
It’s supposed to be BOOBS!!
I quickly flipped to my other essay, “Daddy, what’s a boner?” This was the one on Kindle that had my name spelled incorrectly. Here it was fine. So, we were one for one going into the ‘About the Authors’ section. And my name is… correct! I start to read. “Alisa is a SAHM to three boys, wife to Mr. Baseball and daughter of a sad man.” Yes! “When not burning cupcakes or schlepping kids, she can be found hiding in her closet with a tub of ice cream.” Yes!“I promise you’ll be back for seconds.” Wait… I think something was missing there. “She is a married mother of one.” No! NO! NO!
Where did that come from? That doesn’t even make sense. Sigh.
The puff of publication pride sufficiently deflated, all I can say is, it’s still better than having a kidney on my face.
*Reference from the opening of Charlie’s Angels, of course.