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The holidays have left me exhausted. There is always so much peopling, and peopling just sucks my energy, drains my battery. The analytic side of my brain wants to know why this is. All those dang personality tests I took over my career told me I’m an extrovert, but those tests leaned heavily on how you interact at work. So perhaps I was an introvert coping as an extrovert to fit the professional slot I had pegged myself into, maybe some fake persona I developed instead of my authentic self. So, I could just be a person who needs alone time to recharge her batteries because I’m an introvert and introverts need to recharge after social interaction.
Or maybe it’s because I’m an empath. What is an empath, you ask? I asked too, because people I’m closest to have called me one. In fact, I had to research it just to understand the term, which is actually not an official psychological term, by the way. Instead, it’s someone who is highly attuned to the emotions of others. Merriam-Webster defines it as one who experiences the emotions of others. That seems to resonate with me. If a family member has a headache, I might feel a dull tug in my head. If someone has a stomachache, I feel discomfort in my belly. So maybe being around people drains my battery as I can feel their emotions, their pain, in some cases, experience them myself to some degree. This would explain why being in crowds is sometimes difficult for me, why I need alone time after socializing. Research says that empaths pick up on clues that others might overlook, they’ll notice if someone is sad, or uncomfortable, without that person voicing their feelings. I pick up on even the most subtle clues in people, I don’t need them to verbalize them. I also have complete strangers openly share their struggles with me. Side note, my daughter has this same affliction. Perhaps it’s genetic. Poor girl. For a long time, I thought it was something about my face, or my physical expressions. Like somehow my face says, “hey, tell me what’s wrong, let me share your pain.” For example, back when I was working as a hairdresser (yes, I was a hairdresser prior to my 40+ years working in corporate America), I had a customer who I could tell was struggling. I didn’t pry, I didn’t ask questions, I just wanted to do her hair and move on. But she wasn’t having it. Instead, she proceeded to tell me about her husband filling their bathtub with lobster and champagne, just to have him tell her later that evening he wanted a divorce. Before I finished her hair, I was passing her tissues and blowing my own damn nose. Then there’s the lady who, while cashing me out at the Dollar Store, tells me she suspects she has an ear infection, that she has left a voicemail for her boss in hopes of getting out early to go to the doctor, and that it really hurts. I find myself listening about all the symptoms she had leading up to the ear pain, and I try to help her find solutions that might help her until her boss calls her back. And what about the lady at Starbucks who asked me to watch her bags because she had to go to the bathroom “really bad”. I mean there was a store full of people, and I was clearly getting ready to leave. Why me? I mean, of course I did it. In fact, while waiting for her to return I clutched her bags in a death grip, protecting this stranger’s purchases as if my life depended on it. I could go on and on with examples like this. Things like this happen almost every time I go in public. “Can you watch my cart while I run and grab some eyedrops?” (That one happened just this week while I was waiting in line at the pharmacy). “Could you hold my place in line while I....(insert anything here, I’ve heard it all).” I don’t know how many times a complete stranger has shared personal information with me, and they almost always end up saying, “I don’t even know why I’m telling you this”. I don’t know either, dear stranger, but I hope you feel better after. Of course, I don’t say that out loud. Nor do I tell them this type of thing happens to me all the time. These are just strangers, it’s way worse when something is going on with family and friends. If you’re going through a breakup and you’re devastated, I feel like I need to breathe into a paper bag to keep from hyperventilating. I’ll cry with you and ask, "Why this had to happen to us?"....er, I mean you. Need to put your pet down and ask me to go to the vet with you? Bad move, I’m helpless to assist. I’m not the strong shoulder to cry on in this scenario. But, if you want someone who will sob loudly, cry so much their shirt is soaked and their eyes are bloodshot, and be pretty much totally worthless, I’m your girl. And this isn’t a new characteristic for me. I think I’ve always been like this. I can remember the boy in high school whom someone rudely bumped into, causing him to drop all his books, leaving them scattered across the floor. I immediately felt his embarrassment and discomfort as I bent down and helped him pick them up, assuring him it would be okay. Even further back, there was the girl in elementary school who accidentally stapled her finger. I’m pretty sure I cried harder than she did as I helped her get to the nurse’s office, and I’m positive my finger stung too. Whether the empath thing is real and I’m one of them, or it’s because my face says “tell me what’s wrong and let me feel what you’re feeling”, or it’s because I’m really an introvert instead of an extrovert, or it’s just total coincidence, it’s exhausting. But whatever the reason, if a little kindness pours out of me and helps someone else, then so be it. Our entire world could use a lot of kindness, so I’m happy to do my small part to throw some goodness out into the universe. With that, I’ll wrap up this final blog post of 2024. I wish you all a happy, healthy and prosperous new year. Until next time, love each other and graciously hold the bags of the lady who needs to use the restroom. After all, she’s not asking you to give her a kidney or anything. (Note to self, probably just jinxed myself).
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“Life sucks and then you die.” Anyone heard that line before? I’ve not only heard it, but full disclosure...I’ve said it. Multiple times. Mostly in jest. It’s just so easy to be negative, to focus on the things that aren’t perfect. So, I’m going to turn that thinking on its head and use this month’s blog to reflect on the things I’m thankful for.
First, I woke up again today on the right side of the sod. That feels like a good place to start. Some people weren’t so fortunate. The fact that I’m still here, still breathing, still able to move about this good earth with relative ease, is something to be thankful for. And I’m not here alone. I have the best family in the world. I’m thankful for my parents. Without them, I wouldn’t even be here. I’m thankful they are still alive and well, live close by, and they still love me. Even though I’ve likely been on their very last nerve multiple times over the past six decades. I’m also thankful for my siblings. Without them, I wouldn’t be who I am today. Our childhood together helped shaped the adult I became. They’ve always had my back, as I’ve had theirs. Now that we’re grown-ups (really grown up...like kind of senior citizens...eek!), I’m thankful we still love each other. Some families aren’t so lucky. I’m thankful for my husband. He’s funny, loyal and extremely tolerant of my annoying traits. He has seen the worst of me and chooses to love me anyway. He is the other half of my heart and my best friend. I don’t know how I got so lucky. I’m thankful for my kids. My daughter is the absolute best daughter in the entire universe. I know, without a doubt, that she’d shank a bitch for me in a heartbeat. Luckily, I’ve been able to call her off before that actually happens. (Bail money is hard to come by these days.) But I’m appreciative of her passion in defending her momma and her fierce love of our entire family. She’s feisty, smart and fun. She has amazed me every single day since she took her first breath. I’m thankful for my son, one of the hardest workers on the planet - he certainly followed in his daddy’s footsteps on that one; put the two of them together and they will work harder and accomplish more than ten men. That boy of ours is always there when we need him. I mean, he certainly put us through our paces in his younger days (I wouldn’t relive those days for all the tea in China), but he’s made up for that tenfold. His love for his family has never been in question. He was smart enough to snag a good girl, our beautiful daughter-in-law, and together they created the best granddaughter that’s ever walked the face of the earth. Don’t even try to debate that one with me, she is the best. I’d be willing to throw hands to defend my opinion when it comes to her. She’s loving, caring, funny and strong. I’m so thankful I get to be her grandma. And being thankful for my family doesn’t stop there. There’s grandparents, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, cousins, in-laws, and other family not even officially on my family tree, that I’m thankful for. When it comes to family in general, I won the lottery. Not to brag, but I won the friend lottery too. I’m so very thankful for my friends (you know who you are, and I don't know what I would do without you). I’m thankful to have had a long career where I made lifelong friends. I’m thankful I still stay in touch with many of those people, even some I haven’t worked with in decades. I learned so much from those I worked with over the years, and I’m thankful to have had the chance. Now that I’ve retired from my day job (I mean, I think I have retired, but never say never), I’m thankful for the chance to be able to pursue my dream of writing full-time. Although the agent rejections sting and the road to being traditionally published is long and bumpy, I’m beyond grateful for just having the chance to work toward my dream. Then there’s a lot of other things I’m thankful for besides health, family, opportunity and such. I’m also thankful for the little things. I’m thankful for chai tea, shade on a hot sunny day, good books, great authors (here’s looking at you, Nora Roberts), comfortable shoes, warm blankets, cold pillowcases, frosted sugar cookies, indoor plumbing, golden retrievers, and chocolate. I’m thankful for the adult “M” drinks (Mojitos, Margaritas, Mules), Mexican food, coffee, wine, slot machines and cheese. Not necessarily in that order. Lastly, for those of you still reading, I’m thankful for YOU. I’m thankful to have people who actually take time to read my blogs. And read it all the way to the very end! It’s you, dear readers, that I write for. My most sincere thanks for the opportunity to pour my heart out on the pages and have someone actually read those pages. I promise I will continue to try my best to make what I write worthy of your time. In the meantime, remember that life doesn’t always suck, there is a lot to be thankful for, and let’s enjoy every moment we have while we’re still here. Happy Thanksgiving! To my male readers, this blog post is not a slight. Not at all. The truth is your brains just aren’t wired the same as female brains. It’s not your fault. And you have so many things you’re superior at, like typically having more strength. In fact, according to the American College of Sports Medicine, “Adult males are stronger, more powerful, and faster than females of similar age and training status.” Science shows men are superior in strength, power and speed, but I can unscientifically tell you men are generally unable to find objects directly in front of their face. Even when given clear direction to said object’s location. At my house, it typically goes like this: My Husband: Standing with pantry door open, staring at shelves). I thought you said we had another can of soup. Me: We do. My Husband: Nope, we don’t have any left. I don't see it. I've already looked twice. Me: Third shelf down, right hand side. My Husband: I already looked there. We’re out of soup. Me: Sighs. Walks to pantry. Reaches in and hands husband the can of soup. My Husband: I didn’t see it there. Me: Rolls eyes and mumbles “of course you didn’t” This isn’t a one-time occurrence. It happens all the time. It’s not always soup, of course. It can be any item, in any closet, shelf, drawer, cabinet. Men are just “object-blind”. That isn’t an actual term, I just made it up, but I believe it’s truly a thing. I believe women’s and men’s brains are just wired differently. Actually, I believed it so strongly that while writing this post I went in search of data to back up my beliefs (a/k/a I just googled it). Lo and behold, it’s true. According to the National Geographic website, there was a study by Brooklyn College that put young adults with normal vision through a battery of tests. The study found that men and women physically see things differently. It has something to do with neuron development in the visual cortex being boosted by masculine hormones. Apparently, this difference supports the so-called hunter-gatherer hypothesis, which argues that the sexes evolved distinct psychological abilities to fit their prehistoric roles. Our male predecessors could detect possible predators or prey from afar, making them successful hunters. While our female ancestors were better gatherers with their keen ability to recognize close-at-hand, static objects such as wild berries. Although it seems like a stretch, it would explain why my husband can see a white-tailed buck running along the highway while driving 65 miles an hour but can’t find a flipping can of soup sitting motionless on a shelf in our pantry. For crying out loud, haven’t we evolved enough to move past the whole hunter vs. gatherer thing? I mean, c’mon vertical cortex neurons, get in the game. It’s been a whole lot of years since our hunter/gatherer days. We don’t need you to act this way anymore. Oh well, since I have a better chance of winning the lottery than influencing neurons in the male brain, I guess I’ll just have to deal with it. Besides, there could be worse things than hauling my ass off the couch to point out something right in front of my object-blind better half’s face. So, gals, continue to happily point out the object right in front of your man’s face. Men, appreciate those women in your lives who help you see what you can’t. Until next time, stay strong friends. It’s been one year and nine days since I lost my job. In my September blog post from last year, I wrote about all that I hoped to accomplish while having free time for the first time ever in my adult life. I drafted a plan in my head, secretly hoping I’d nail not only the list, but take on some extra tasks as well. Well, it didn’t happen, and my overachiever self is not one bit happy about it.
Some of what I’d planned to do, I can check off my list. I finished writing my third book and began querying literary agents for representation of it. Check. Some cupboards and closets have been organized and sorted. Check. One of the two chairs I planned to refinish is almost done. The remainder of the items on the list fall into not even started or in progress. Loser. Yep, my hand’s making a big old “L” on my forehead. In all fairness, my plans were disrupted by the unplannable. I didn’t plan on having health issues this year (what the hell, 2024?). So, there was definitely less time than planned to attack my list, but there was also a lack of energy. And honestly, I can’t determine if the lack of energy is completely from the health issues or just part of getting older. Gulp. I can’t believe I’m even considering playing the old card. But damn, there it is. I’m laying it on the table. As a full-time employee, I remember thinking if I just had six months off, what I could accomplish around the house. I’d be a force to be reckoned with, a domestic tornado unleashed within the walls of my home. I was sure six months would buy me time to clean and organize the entire basement, paint all the interior walls and ceilings, and about thirty other lofty cleaning tasks I would accomplish. The truth is, I may have seriously overestimated my ability. I mean it’s been an entire year! My present self is now wondering what in the hell my past self was thinking. I mean, why didn’t I account for life and all the stuff that happens along the way that you can’t possibly imagine? Not without a crystal ball anyway. Oh, fun fact.... you can actually buy crystal balls on Amazon. Yes, I checked. None of them guarantee telling the future though. Go figure. So, what’s next? I think next up is creating a new plan. Perhaps a little less ambitious with some wiggle room for the unexpected life stuff. A plan that falls somewhere between “I will finish everything left undone on the former list” and “will just continue to breathe”. Hopefully the plan will land somewhere closer to the first than the latter. But in the meantime, my recommendation is to do what makes you happy, celebrate what you do accomplish and give yourself some grace. Tomorrow isn’t promised, so enjoy the present even if something on your list isn’t going to get checked off. After all, there likely won’t be a list of your accomplishments etched on your tombstone. So, my friends, stay safe, healthy and enjoy every minute of this life. And if a plan goes to hell, just replan it. p.s. For those of you keeping track, yeah, I almost waited until the last day of the month to publish my blog post again. I’ll try to do better next month...maybe I’ll put it on my list. How can it possibly be the last day of August? I double checked the calendar and alas, it is true. Since I promised one blog post a month and I haven’t published one for August, I’m currently sitting at my desk, hands on keyboard and starting to sweat.
I should probably write a post about why I wait until the very last minute to create my blog posts each month. I mean, it could be therapeutic, if only I knew what the reason was. It could be related to my need for perfection. If I don’t write a post, it can’t be criticized for not being perfect. Or it could be fear of rejection. I mean, I could wallpaper my entire office with the rejections I’ve received the last couple of months as I query literary agents for representation of "The Seaside Crosses" (my third book). Or maybe it’s because I just don’t have anything to say because my life is so boring. (Insert eyeroll here). It’s very strange because I have never been a procrastinator. I was the person who would start working on a homework assignment the day it was given, even if it wasn’t due for a month. Or even a quarter. Oh Tammy, your nerdiness is showing. There’s also some good old guilt in play here, because shouldn’t I be writing about meaty important topics each month? Shouldn’t my blog posts be tackling serious world issues (like finding a cure for cancer, ending homelessness, finding world peace, stopping world hunger, etc.)? If the pen is mightier than the sword, shouldn’t I use my forum for something huge? I probably could, but at the end of the day, I’m just little old me. A girl who likes to write, mostly for entertainment. I don’t have the expertise for highly complicated topics. Or maybe I kind of do for some topics, but I’d rather write something that makes someone smile, or laugh out loud, or gives someone all the feels; mainly I want my posts to allow people to walk away (scroll away?) being glad they took the time to read it. Well, I’m almost at the size of a normal post, and all I’ve done is talk about my waiting until the very last day of the month to write and the potential reasons for it. I could have written about the exciting time we had planning and holding my daughter’s 40th birthday party this month. Or I could write about how absolutely wonderful my husband is (his suggestion for this month’s blog post). Or I could do what I’ve just done, basically Seinfelded it, wrote an entire post about absolutely nothing. But at the end of the day, maybe this was somewhat therapeutic. Or maybe I accomplished my mission and made someone somewhere glad they took the time to read about absolutely nothing in particular. Until next time.....(and hopefully next time isn’t the very last day of September), stay safe, healthy and happy, my friends. I promised myself I’d write one blog post each month this year. Guess who broke their promise? Ugh. I have so many excuses for not getting blog posts out the past two months, but none of them feel adequate, so I’m leaving that guilt in the rear-view mirror and moving on. As I prepare for each month’s post, I spend some time deciding what I’ll write about. I batted around a bunch of ideas for this one and landed on writing about anxiety this month. I have battled anxiety pretty much since birth. Now, I can’t verify this myself since my memory doesn’t go back that far, but my mother confirms I’ve been a worrier since childhood. Yay me. For others out there who fall into the same boat, I’m sending you a hug. If you don’t like hugs, then consider yourself receiving positive vibes in a way that makes you completely comfortable. For those of you who don’t suffer from anxiety, I’ll openly admit I’m a tad jealous, and ask you to keep the rest of us in mind as you navigate your day to day. How can you spot us? It’s kind of hard. We’ve worked hard to be the best damn actors and actresses when we are out in public, trying to just act “normal”. We may be accomplished in our professional lives, contribute to our communities, join groups/clubs. We have coped, but you might still be able to spot us. There could be little hints – like beads of sweat on our forehead, flushed face, fidgeting, not smiling at a joke you just shared as we’re distracted by just trying to keep our shit together. We’re constantly in flight or fight mode, even though we no longer need to be in this mode 24/7 like our predecessors did. I mean, when was the last time you had to run from a Saber-tooth Tiger to save your life? Never. But tell that to my brain. My anxiety usually heads straight to my stomach. Which just makes you more anxious in public, because who wants to worry about losing bodily fluids among witnesses? Spoiler alert – nobody raised their hand. At my age, you’d think I’d have this under control. Nope. But I do have ulcers now, which are exasperated by stress, which undoubtedly helped lead to my recent hospital visit. So, how do those of us anxious folks cope? If you’re like me, you don’t have a silver bullet answer. I’ve tried medication, counseling, visualization therapy, yoga, focused breathing, meditation, and every other thing you can think of. A combination of all of the above typically get me through most days, but I’ve yet to find a perfect solution. Know what doesn’t work? Somebody telling me to “just relax”. I mean, c’mon, do you think anyone wants to feel this way? I’d give my eye teeth to be able to just relax. Okay, maybe just a molar or two instead, since missing eyeteeth would likely be more noticeable. Anyway, while this post hits on the fun topic of anxiety, a future one might discuss full-blown panic attacks. Trust me. You don’t want one of those. But if you encounter someone in the midst of having one, or just trying to navigate life with general anxiety alone, please be kind. And when they tell you they must leave wherever they are because of some lame excuse, act like you believe them. Send them on their way with a quick wave and thank your lucky stars you aren’t in their shoes. Until next time, love your fellow humans. “Hospitals are no place for sick people.” A coworker said those words years ago and I thought it was such an odd thing to say. Where else would sick people go? But I get it now. I really do. So, Jim, if you’re reading this, I hear ya, man. You were absolutely right.
I just returned home from a four-day hospital stay. It wasn’t my choice to visit. I wasn’t secret shopping their services or anything. And my sincerest condolences to anyone who ever gets that type of assignment. In my case it was kind of a "go to the hospital or die” kind of thing. So, what’s a girl to do? Fortunately, I was able to skip the whole ambulance ride part of the experience. My family assured the doctor they could get me to the hospital pronto, and they did. I might mention here that I have the best family on the entire face of the earth, but since I could write an entire blog post on just that fact, I’ll save that for another time. We pulled up to the emergency entrance and my daughter helped me out of the car. She needed to. I couldn’t have gotten out of the car and into ER without her help. Believe me, I’m stubbornly independent. I don’t like to rely on anyone for anything, ever. I recognize this is a character flaw. Nobody’s perfect. If there was any possible way I could have physically walked through those front doors unassisted, I’d have done it. Like a boss. Head held high. Maybe even with a bit of swagger. Instead, I was leaning against my daughter like the Eiffel Tower, head slumped, shaky as a newborn calf. Not my finest hour. Oh, and for all of you trolls out there who want to know where my husband was, he had to pull the car away so other cars could pull up, so suck it. Anyway, my recollection of exactly what happened as we walked through the doors is a bit scattered, but I remember someone saying, “there’s usually a ton of wheelchairs here”. Somehow my petite daughter summoned the inner strength of Atlas and was able to hold me up until they found a wheelchair. I was then wheeled up to the check-in where a bored and borderline rude attendant checked me in. Her focus was on chatting with her work peeps, rather than on the barely living human in front of her. I don’t think she knows how lucky she was to escape the wrath of my daughter, who did the actual checking in on my behalf since I was pretty much out of it. I’m certain the attendant was only spared because my daughter didn’t want to risk slowing down the process. The doctor had called ahead to let the ER know we were on our way and sent us with a packet of information, the bloodwork they’d just completed, etc. We hoped that would expedite things when we arrived. It didn’t. We sat in a packed waiting room the size of a postage stamp. Me, lolled over in the wheelchair like a dead mackerel, while seemingly healthy people were called in, one after the other. I’m sure they weren’t truly healthy, but they didn’t have the same deceased-fish-look thing going on that I did. Luckily by the time we were called back, I was still conscious. Barely. But progress came to a standstill when the triage nurse discovered the rude check-in attendant had entered my first name as my last name and my last name as my first name. Friends, you can’t make this stuff up. Apparently, it’s difficult to get the latest drama from your coworkers and enter patient information into the right fields, all at the same time. The triage nurse wanted to at least get my vitals while they waited for the name issue to get sorted. Unfortunately, modern technology wouldn’t allow her to even move forward until my name mix-up was resolved and a new ID bracelet with a new bar code was generated. It didn’t take long after being triaged to be told I would be admitted. An IV was started, more blood taken, some medication for nausea started. I was impressed with the speed of the CT scan and X-Rays being done. The staff for both were professional and efficient. The wheelchair didn’t have a place for your feet though, so I had to hold my legs out straight for the ride from the ER to the scanning machine. Maybe I’ll get a discount on my bill for that. Insert eye roll here. The next couple days were an experience. I was in two different rooms and had approximately 300 different nurses. Ok, bit of an exaggeration, but the room and shift changes did expose me to many different nurses. Some were good. Some were awful. Seems like having compassion and a positive attitude would be a requirement when dealing with sick people. But I guess with staffing shortages being an issue, you take what you can get. And I’ll admit, I wasn’t the perfect patient. I accidentally hit my nurse call button twice by mistake when trying to turn on the TV. They really should put those buttons further apart. The staffing shortages also seemed to be the reason one of my blood draws required three different needle pricks and three different people before they could get my blood. I learned later that there wasn’t a phlebotomist on that night, and taking blood was evidently not my nurse's jam. Nor the second nurse that she called for help. She did tell me she usually has better luck drawing blood and, in all fairness, I was running out of places to stick a needle. The first two nurses tried taking it from my hand. Their attempts were unsuccessful, but the side-by-side bandages on my hand did look like Mickey Mouse ears. Nobody laughed when I pointed that out. Being able to sleep, which most sick people really need, does not happen in the hospital. You must be woken up for the middle of the night vital checks, medication administration and blood draws. I realize some of this must happen to keep you alive, but damn, don’t sick people need sleep? Could there be a better way? Like, if the patient happens to be lucky enough to fall asleep, let’s adjust our schedule a bit to let them sleep? Probably not an option, staffing issues being what they are. Lastly, let’s talk cleanliness; cleanliness of both the facility and the patient. I’ll admit I’m a bit of a germaphobe. Yep, another flaw. But I feel like pillows should have pillowcases. I really didn’t want to lay my head on the same pillow someone else had laid theirs on without a clean cover. And bedding? Mine was never changed during my four-day stay. The bathroom, germ heaven, seems like it should be cleaned at least daily. My preference would be at least twice a day. I mean, YUCK. A guy did come in with a rag and wipe it over the walls of our room. A small section of wall. But no thorough wipe down of all surfaces or anything. Hours before I was discharged, day four, someone did come in and ask if I’d like to bathe. Yes, I would have liked that. Day one, two, and three would have been nice. I finally asked for a toothbrush on day two so I could at least brush my teeth. Day one I was just too sick to care. In my opinion, hospitals should be pristine. I know it is a constant battle with sick people all over the place mucking things up, but germs should be attacked non-stop. After my stay I now understand why so many people end up with an infection while hospitalized. We need to do better. For my friends who live outside of the United States, I’m curious if things are better in your hospitals. For those of us in the US, why aren’t things better? How do we improve the current situation in our hospitals? Shouldn’t more of the money we pay in taxes go to better care? In the meantime, I implore all my friends to be informed and prepared. Maybe keep an emergency to-go bag at the ready with hand-sanitizer, disinfecting wipes, toothpaste/toothbrush, deodorant, dry shampoo and a pillowcase. Oh, and perhaps a name tag clearly showing your first and last name proudly displayed, in the proper order. Finally, if you’re lucky enough to have a kickass family to act as your medical advocates like I do, thank your lucky stars. I’m definitely thanking mine. Lately, I’ve had a lot of my non-writer friends ask about querying: What does querying mean? Why do you do it? What does it mean when you say you are “in the query trenches”?
So, for my non-writer friends with these questions, this month’s blog post is for you. I should probably add a disclaimer here, the answers below are from my perspective and my personal experience. Haters, read this disclaimer as “don’t waste your time finding a more intellectual response from cited sources.” Of course, I’m always open to everyone’s thoughts because I’m curious like that. (Or maybe I’m just a glutton for punishment.) Okay, moving on. To help answer these questions, I think we must start with the end goal. For me, the end goal is getting traditionally published, meaning I’ve authored a book that can be found on bookshelves in major retailer’s physical stores (Barnes and Noble, Target, Walmart, etc.) - a real non-digital book with paper pages, a cover, a back, a spine, etc., and is also available online (think amazon.com, barnesandnoble.com, etc.). Most of the books you see available on a shelf in a store are printed and distributed by one of the major publishing houses. Publishers like Penguin Random House, HarperCollins, Simon & Schuster, etc. Generally, these publishers won’t accept unsolicited submissions from folks like little ole me. Instead, they work with literary agents to source the books they publish. That leaves unpublished writers like me needing to find a literary agent if they want to publish via the traditional route with one of the big publishing houses. This is where the whole “query” thing comes in. Finding an agent is kind of like online dating. You are trying to find someone who is a good match for you. You like them. They like you. Someone who will champion your book, fight for you, get your book submitted to the big guys on your behalf, someone who will hold your hand all the way until your book is on the shelf. Ideally this person will continue to work with you on future books as well; they’ll be your ride or die on your publishing journey. A query is basically a pitch you throw out to literary agents interested in your genre to see if they would be willing to represent you. Your “pitch” is like the description you read on the back of a book to see if it’s something you want to read. In addition to the pitch itself, your query letter mentions a little bit about you, the book’s genre, word count, and so on. You’re trying to explain why your book is the best thing since sliced bread, and why they’d be the perfect person to help make your dream come true. I’ve spent countless hours researching, writing, and re-writing query letters for the three books I’ve written so far. Every agent wants something different, but typically they want your query to include a synopsis of the book you’re pitching and a writing sample (i.e., the first ten pages, the first chapter, etc.). So, for each agent you’re interested in, you put your query together, submit it, and then light candles, rub your lucky rabbit’s foot, plead to the writing Gods above, and just generally hope and pray they reply to your query and ask for your full manuscript. Most of the time they don’t. For instance, as of this moment, I’ve sent 101 queries over the past eight years for the three different books I’ve written. Of those 101, I’ve received only three full requests, none of which ended in snagging an agent. The others have either returned a rejection, or never responded at all. If you’re thinking, “Wow, she must really suck”, don’t feel bad, I’ve thought that too. It is just really hard. Many bestselling authors received hundreds of rejections before finally getting published. I must remind myself of this fact daily. Even though I know the statistics, each rejection stings. Being turned down is hard. But so far, I’ve managed to keep marching on. And yes, I know I could self-publish, or just go digital, or go with a real small publishing house, get my books out there on Amazon, but for now, I’m holding onto my dream of going the traditional route. Maybe I’m a sadist. Finally, to address the last question about “being in the query trenches”, it means you’ve rolled up your sleeves and you are querying your little heart out. You’re remaining sane amongst rejections and fighting the good fight to hopefully achieve your dream. And as painful as it is, I have learned so much from the entire process. I can subjectively look at the books I’ve written and see each one was better than the last. That is a pretty powerful lesson since I thought the first one was pretty darn good. I’m guessing when I write the next one, I’ll think it’s better than the one I’m currently querying for. I mean, practice makes perfect, right? Let’s hope so. For now, I’ll keep marching toward my dream. Keep on keeping on. Luckily for me, I’m not a quitter, and I’m not afraid of doing hard things. Or maybe, the reality is I’m just too damned stubborn to give up. Either way, throughout my life, books have often been my salvation - they’ve let me dream, they’ve transported me to places I’d never have visited otherwise, they’ve helped me learn, they’ve warmed and entertained me, and hopefully my books can do the same for countless others someday. We’ve been married for 14,610 days. That’s 40 years, folks. I personally find this fact hard to believe. I mean, I barely feel 40 years old. How can we possibly have been married that long? Alas, according to our marriage certificate, the Gregorian calendar, and basic math, this fact seems to be true.
And because it is true, I feel like I’ve earned the right to share some wedded wisdom, and pass it on to all of you. If you’ve been married less than four decades, are engaged to be married, or will potentially consider marrying someone someday, then maybe this one’s for you. If you’ve been married more than 40 years, move on. There’s nothing to see here. Old news. For those of you still reading, here it goes. First of all, I think it matters who you pick to be your other half. I lucked out in that department. I was lucky enough to find someone who puts up with all my idiosyncrasies and shortcomings, who believes in me even why I don’t believe in myself, and who picks me up when I don’t have the strength to do it myself. Everyone should be so lucky. Interestingly, people probably didn’t look at us forty years ago and say, “Now, there’s a match made in heaven”. It was more likely they said, “What in the hell are they doing together?”. I know for a fact that some people said, “It will never last”. Hello haters – 40 effing years together! Put that in your pipe and smoke it. Sorry, I digress. So, what wisdom can I share beyond the fact that some people probably won’t (or didn’t) see the two of you together, didn’t see you as a good match? Let’s start with, marriage isn’t a walk in the park, and it’s definitely not for the fainthearted. It is a lot of work. Sometimes you have to bite your tongue, and I mean like nearly bite that sucker half off, because sometimes what you initially think you’d like to say will fuel a fire that’s already illogically raging out of control, and those words will be something you’ll regret later. So, hold your breath and count to ten before blurting out something you’ll wish you didn’t. Measure the worth of your words against the anticipated impact of them. Sometimes silence is best. And I don’t mean be a doormat. Hell to the no! Just understand timing is everything. Be there for your significant other through thick and thin. On that glorious day when we said I do (okay, maybe it wasn’t really a completely glorious day, since it was a very cold and snowy February day), we never could have imagined the things that would cross our path while on this journey together. We’ve navigated through some heavy stuff, life and death stuff, punch you right in the gut stuff we could never have seen coming. When you say “for better or worse”, I’m here to tell you there will be some worse. I know I could not have gotten through those days of “worse” without my husband by my side. In those times, the strength of your partner will be what pulls you through. Laugh. For those of you who know my husband, you know this is a biggie for us. He makes me laugh every single day. Even when I don’t want to. He reminds me not to take myself too seriously. Give each other space. Go do your own things. When you’re reunited after you’ve been off doing your thing, you’ll feel refreshed. You’ll be thankful for the time apart. You’ll appreciate each other even more after having some time away from each other. Be honest and vulnerable. I’m a hot mess most of the time, and he’s often the only one who knows it. He keeps my secrets, lifts me up, and has seen me at my absolute worst. I can be my true self with him, I don’t have to be someone I’m not. He knows the ugly, unvarnished version of me and loves me anyway. Make sacrifices. Alright, I hear the groans. But I think this is really important. We don’t eat just the foods that only one of us likes, or do all activities that are my favorite or his favorite, or only go to places that one of us loves, and so on. We compromise. We make sacrifices for each other. Love your significant other enough that you can push out of your comfort zone to do things that make them happy. For the record, I know more about sports, guns and hunting than I ever thought possible. He knows more about gardening (he can name almost all perennials now, and a lot of annuals too), and the onerous work of trying to become a published author, than he surely ever wanted to know. Appreciate the little things, because the little things are really the big things. A forehead kiss, a reassuring hand squeeze, the grin that melts your heart, these things are precious. Relish in them, appreciate them, soak them in. Lastly, don’t expect perfection. Long marriages are marathons full of the hard and heavy. They’re not perfect, but they’re real. Raw and real and come with warts and scars that you’ll overlook, because the end goal is being blessed enough to find someone who matters most. Someone who makes you smile, even when you don’t want to. Someone who fills your heart and soul, who appreciates both the best and worst version of you. Here’s to 40 more years for us. And yes, I know that would put us in our 100’s, but hey, you never know! Thanks to my husband for putting up with me for the last 14,610 days. They’ve been the best days of my life. The hair salon I go to has a vibe. There’s just no denying it. You can feel it the moment you walk in the door. The owners are sisters. The employees who work there, and their clientele, are a special lot. I can’t help but wonder how this even happens? I mean, it’s a big salon. How does a place get a vibe so palpable that even the slow kids in the back (raising my hand here) can feel it? There are a lot of customers. How do you gather a large number of just the right employees and the right customers together under the same roof and end up creating such a vibe?
I’m only there every eight to nine weeks, yet it’s like I’ve only been gone a few minutes each time I return. The people there are positive, supportive and real. And I’m not talking about just the people who work there. Hell, they probably have to be nice or there wouldn’t be any paying clients. I’m including all of the people who are in and out of the place. There’s the local man who hasn’t had an easy life. He might come in quietly and listen, or sit on the bench and read. He doesn’t seem to have much, but the sisters make sure he has warm boots and a jacket for the winter months. There’s the daughter of the lady who styles beautiful clothing displays at the salon. The daughter’s been planning her sweet sixteen birthday party for months, putting in her requests for the best celebration ever. She asked her mom for a throne for her party. I learned about her request last time I was there. We all laughed. “Can you imagine? A throne?”, we all said. We laughed and rolled our eyes. Today I learned her mom is going to make it happen. Not because it’s easy, not because there’s a limitless budget, but because the people there are amazing people. They make things happen. Even if it’s hard. The clientele and staff are open and supportive. It’s like a community with estrogen that links everyone together. Maybe it’s the sharing of the trials and tribulation of being female, like one big support group? But then I think of the man who comes in to sit and read, or the man that came in today while I was there. He didn’t have an appointment, but someone said they’d be able to fit him in, he’d just have to wait a bit. No problem. Five minutes into his wait, he was already joining the conversation. So it’s not just the female connection that makes the place work. I think what makes it work is the owners. The sisters. They’re friendly, gritty, energetic, passionate and real. We all know life is not a bowl of cherries, but evidently they check their negativity at the door, and it sets the tone for the place. They learn about their customers. They treat them with respect and encouragement. They find the common threads that link us all together as humans and they pull those threads through and weave them into a community. Their mom came in today while I was there. She is like her daughters, vibrant and friendly. She had obviously taught them well, because at the end of a day, a place doesn’t just have a vibe. It’s created, nurtured and solidified. There’s something we can all learn from that. If you work with the public, or heck, even just interact with the public, be your best. Help create the right vibe. |
AuthorTammy Bulson Archives
June 2025
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