Big News!

Okay, so while it appears I've abandoned this blog, I just want to say that ...okay fine. I abandoned this blog. In my defense, I did try to write a post about our Christmas Tree debacle but it somehow got deleted and I was too lazy unable to rewrite.

But now I bring news. Some big time news. As in a book contract! Yep, that's right.

It's been a slog, albeit an enjoyable one. Over the years I've written several novels. Way too many novels. Like more than fifteen projects over 50k words. Some were decent, others not so much. Most were scrapped. Three or four became something. All were rejected.

Over the years I got discouraged. I still wrote, but more for myself. Still, on a whim, I pitched my favorite novel on #pitmad back in December. #PitMad is a pitch party on Twitter where writers tweet a 280-character pitch for their completed, polished, unpublished manuscripts. Agents and editors make requests by liking/favoriting the tweeted pitch.

So I received a like from Immortal-Works Press and sent off the query and first page. I wasn't overly excited. I'd played this game before. In fact, this project--some form of it, anyway--had gotten six likes and had been requested before.

But Immortal-Works rang a bell. I had worked with them when they read my flash fiction entry on their site. But again, I remained calm. Over the years, I've sort of learned not to get my hopes up

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And them came a request for a full. The editor wanted to read more. That never-will-learn heart of mine kicked up a gear even as I told myself I wasn't getting worked up about it. I sent it in and forgot about it. No, I didn't.

Fast forward to two weeks ago. On a Sunday morning when I happen to check my email. Boom. The acquisition editor said she loved my book. She cried. Did I mention she loved my book? They would love to publish it.

Love to publish it. 

Is this a joke? I actually sent that back. it's just been such a long road for this book.

But it's no joke. JUSTICE IN A BOTTLE has found a home.

It's only fitting that it's this one. Nita, my main character is my favorite of any I've ever written. Seriously, any other character and I would have given up on this sucker years ago. I've had agents tell me they liked the writing but didn't think it was okay for me to write this story. I've had people tell me the story is too grown up. I've been through tense changes, rewrites, edits and so many drafts. And now it's going to happen.

But it's going to take more work. More edits. More work to promote it. And I have my second wind.

My son, six now, looked at me and said he couldn't believe I was going to be an author. He's proud of me, and that's so cool. I think as parents we are always going to be proud of our kids. But it's just as important for them to be proud of us, right? So my son is proud of me. My wife is proud of me. Heck, I'm proud of me.

But i need to get back to work.

I'll keep you posted!

Castaway...

Ten days until the cast comes off. And boy are we counting down the minutes.

My apologies. It’s been a long month in our house. Ever since my son wrecked his bike and broke his leg (yes, broke, I still can’t believe it) only three days into Kindergarten we’ve been in some sort of weird holding pattern. Or healing pattern. 

So many times I started to write about it but couldn't. Maybe because of the guilt. I feel mostly responsible. Short story: he was in his pajamas, all ready for bed when the neighbors came walking down the street. It was dusk, and he bolted outside and wanted to ride his bike (re: showoff for the older kids). I knew he was exhausted, that he was rushing and it probably wasn't a good idea. And yet, I told him okay, go get your helmet. He got on his bike, rode out the driveway as he's done so many times. I was telling him to lookout for traffic when the handlebars wiggled, wiggled some more, and I could only watch from two car lengths away as the bike folded. It's not a night I want to remember...

I feel bad for the kid, I mean, he broke his leg. But now, as he's come along, gotten comfortable, scooting up and down the hallway, we’ve become more like his personal servants than parents. 

I'm pretty sure the other day he added a "chop chop" to a milk request. It appears we have some bad habits to break. Like watching so much TV and eating breakfast on the couch. For a kid who climbs trees, runs around the yard, and never sits still, it’s been an adjustment. But still, chop chop? Even a sucker like me has limits. 

So we’re ready. We are are oh so ready to get this thing off. And it just may do so all on its own. It's coming apart at the heel, the vibrant purple color has dulled and faded and I'm fairly certain that if we didn’t have a date to cut the cast off, it would disintegrate.

And speaking of disintegrate. The smell. The smell of feet, of old, wet, dirty, whatever is going on in the depths of that thing. Baths are tricky, we've been dipping his head in the sink to wash his hands, flipping him around to get, uh, other areas clean. But the boy could use a good soaking. 

As a parent, this was one of my worst nightmares. I was actually sort of a basket case for the first twenty-four hours, at least until the doctor put me at ease. Casting wasn't so easy. Our kid wasn't exactly ready to sit still, but who could blame him, we've been remarkably lucky healthwise up until this...

But it hasn’t been all that bad. Bad? Yes, of course, but it’s been a learning experience. Sure, the little guy gets frustrated. Angry. Cries at times, but you know what, other times he’s gotten creative, learned new ways to accomplish his tasks (even if it means manipulating Daddy), and kept on making us smile.

So here’s to ten days.

The Race...

The wind screams past my ears, blowing against my face, rifling through my hair. I look to my left and see a boy, legs churning, smile spreading, eyes alight with a mixture of fun and fear. The rain hits the trees in the distance, approaching full steam but not yet arrived. We race the rain. 

  

It was one of those moments I knew I’d remember even as it was happening. I missed vacation this year. I missed writing. I started a new career with new challenges that threw this summer into a tailspin. Mom and son went up to New York to see family without me. But this race, our race in the rain was better than any ocean or theme park. It was a race against time.

My kid is five and he’s really coming into his own. He longs for friends his own age, yet still clings to Mommy and Daddy when the room is dark. He can be feisty, stubborn, with a Kylo Ren-like ferocity and determination to get his way. But at other times he’s a lovable, sweet, boy full of compassion, ready to protect a bug or a butterfly.

He’s bright. He’s thoughtful. He’s pretty much everything in my life. Even when he’s upset with me. Even when he has to do chores. Even when he has to brush his teeth. Even when he has to sit at the dinner table. No matter what I always remember one thing. Time is short. He's growing up. The hugs will loosen and the chores and bedtimes and the tuck ins and stories will become something we remember instead of do. The race is on...

I'm Fine, Dad...

At five, my kid is all about Daddy. We bond over all things guy. We sword fight, we wrestle, we run and jump and we charge into the woods. It's a great way for me to pretend I'm a kid again--I mean uh, hangout with my son.
  
Only now I’ve been replaced by the two boys across the street. Maybe seven and nine, they have new moves, new ideas, and they out “kid” me in every way. (I mean, hey, I’m only but so immature). They sword fight, only better. They build extravagant Lego space shuttles that put my rudimentary vehicles to shame. They don’t have jobs, so they are free to memorize the names and lines of every Star Wars villain. Simply put, I cannot compete. 

Sure, it’s nice to watch him interact and play in the front yard. Last week I was returning from my walk with the dogs. It was around six or so, that great time in the spring where the sun is low and warm and the trees were budding and I heard the sounds of kids playing in the yard. My yard. It was a nice little moment. 

“Hey buddy,” I said, getting to the driveway. 

Nothing. 

He was busy, on the swing out front. The neighbor kids were pushing him (a little too high for my taste) and he was having a blast. I nodded, knowing how the swing sort of veers back into the tree after so many times and I was worried about his head hitting the tree so I edged my way over, you know, just so that I could swoop in if something were to happen. 

But my kid saw me coming, and I swear, I think he might have rolled his eyes. 
“Dad, I’m fine.”

And he was fine.  Completely, wonderfully, fine. SoI trudged up the driveway to the carport, where I found my wife standing there, smiling at me the way Adrian smiled at Rocky after a good pummeling. She wrapped me in a towel, rubbed my shoulders, and we commenced to what I think is considered an adult conversation. 

Okay, it wasn’t quite that dramatic, but after two years of being Mr. Fun, it does feel a little like a demotion. Though it is kind of cool watching this boy—not baby, not toddler, but all boy—run and play and charge and create. And if I’m being honest, my back sort of needs a rest.