Apologies for the capital letters. And for the exclamation points. I am not really an all-caps-and-exclamation-points kind of gal.

Not until yesterday.

Yesterday was a really big day for me. An important one. And I can’t stop smiling.

I race to write these words for fear that something or someone will come along and strip me of my smiles, my current glee. And maybe this is not a healthy way to see things, or feel things, but so be it.

So I race to write these words. For you. For me.

I arrived home after an appointment yesterday afternoon and there was a package waiting for me. From HarperCollins. I knew just what it was. My body started to shake a bit. My hands clammed up. (Sexy, I know.)

Toddler helped me open it. And there it was. A finished copy of Life After Yes.

And I am biased, oh so biased, but my first reaction?

Gorgeous.

I sat there for a while. On the couch with my firstborn. She snuggled into my side, exquisitely oblivious, as I sat there, flipping, rereading my own words. After a while, I got up and walked into my study, my cluttered haven. Still clutching my book, my book, I sat down at my desk, my big Yuppie Pottery Barn desk, to check my email.

And there it was. An email from my publicist. And I knew something was up. Because I looked at the subject line and, at first, all I could see was all caps and exclamation points. It read:

FIRST REVIEW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! And it’s a RAVE!!!!!!!!!

And so. Still clutching my book, I clicked and opened. And I read the following Booklist review:

What could have been a ho-hum story of a golden girl’s engagement to an equally golden boy is tempered and hardened by the specter of 9/11. Quinn is the beautiful, smart, successful young lawyer; daughter of smart, successful, wealthy parents; living a fiction-perfect life as a junior partner in a major law firm; and engaged to Sage, an equally blessed investment banker. All is according to plan until a September morning when her father meets his broker for breakfast at the top of the World Trade Center. Life shatters, but of course life goes on. In her grief, Quinn questions and tests the love and loyalty of everyone, and acts out in ways that others are willing to tolerate, for a while. Finally, she becomes aware of the grief and burdens that others bear, and finds and accepts the flaws in herself and others that her previous self would not have. First-novelist Rowley creates credible characters and situations with sharp dialogue and apt descriptions, and wisely lets a personal perspective embody the story of a national disaster.

And then. Then I reread these words. Over and over. And then I called my publicist and said something like, “They didn’t say anything mean! It is good, right?” She giggled and confirmed that, yes, it was good. Then she told me to call my Husband.

And so I did. He didn’t answer. So I called Mom. Got her voicemail. Then I tried Sister C. She picked up. I read her the review. And I can’t remember what she said, but her words were stuffed with genuine excitement and emotion. She asked me to forward her the review. And I did. Later, she told me that she read the review out loud to her baby. I’m not sure why, but hearing this, envisioning this moment, was magic.

Finally, I got Mom on the phone. I read her the review. Again, her words are a blur. But one word I remember and clear as day is proud. She said she is proud of me. This made my day even though my day was already made. And Mom and I had this amazing and short-lived exchange.

“Mom, it’s not just that it’s a good review, but the reviewer got it. The reviewer understood what I was trying to do.”

It feels so good to be gotten.

Truth be told, I wish that Mom had been able to hand the phone over to Dad. I don’t know, but I think he would have muttered something impossibly vague and loving into the receiver. Good going, Maidy-Bunks.

And later. I read the review, my very first book review, to my man. He suffocated me with a hug. And trapped there, in his strong arms, I felt happy. And then we went out, strolled the streets of our neighborhood. We walked through our new home which is near completion.

At dinner, we toasted new beginnings.

And now. Now I am sitting on the Fudgsicle-stained carpet in my living room amid a sea of puzzle pieces and sippy cups. Still smiling. Toddler is off at school. And Baby putters around me. The television blares in the background. Sunshine shimmies through the window. A new day, a good day, beckons.

And I write this now, these words, for reasons not yet clear to me. I write these words, to memorialize a moment that is big and pure and good. And fleeting. Because I know better. I know that nothing in life is all sunshine and smiles and sippy cups. I know that it is a matter of time before a rough review comes in and those doubts, deep and dark, resurface. I know that the strength I feel now is ephemeral. I know that someone will say something – and soon – about me or my work that will make me crumple and cry. I know these things. Because I know myself.

But. For now. There are smiles. There are capital letters. There are exclamation points.

And now. I will publish this. And get on with my Friday. I will play with a little girl dressed in pink monkey pajamas. I will tickle her until she squeals. I will chase her into the kitchen and back. I will meow like a kitty and bark like a dog. I will read her a book or four.

Next to her, next to this, I will keep smiling.

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• How much do you care about reviews (of your work, of your relationships, of your life)?
• Do you think we ever stop caring about our parents’ approval and praise?
• Do you ever have amazing moments or days where you can’t stop smiling, but are also aware of how fleeting those smiles are?
  

These days, I don’t read nearly as much as I would like to. But when I do find the time and the motivation to lose myself in a book, it is often one on the art of writing. Why? Because I am rookie and a work-in-progress and eager to improve. Because I am obsessively curious about the experiences and tactics of other writers. Because, in reading good books on craft, I glean tips on writing.

And living.

One of my favorite writing books is Norman Mailer’s The Spooky Art: Thoughts on Writing. I love this book for many reasons, but largely because Mailer wrote it toward the end of his career and of his life. He wrote it looking back. Ultimately, this vantage point lends a compelling critical honesty about life and literary lessons learned. In this book, Mailer writes,

Anyone who worries about whether he is going to hurt somebody’s feelings by his work is no more a writer than a surgeon who says to himself, “In making this incision, I am going to give this woman a scar on her belly that could injure her love life for the next thirty years.” The surgeon just makes the cut. He may be right or wrong in the need for the operation, but he keeps a necessary insensitivity to the rest of the context. Writers also have their own kind of restricted vision. They cannot afford to say to themselves, “This portrait is going to scar my good friend.” Or my father. Or my sister. If they feel such sentiments, they can’t write. Indeed, a great many young writers think of all the people they’re going to hurt or, worse, those they’re going to make enemies of, and, full of funk, begin to brood on the retribution that will ensue. So there has to be something a bit maniacal about a young man or woman who would be an exciting writer. He or she has to be willing to get that book out no matter how many psychic casualties are left in its passage. On the other hand, a good young young writer does well not to take an immediate advantage over people he dislikes by dumping on them in his pages. It’s a bad habit to cash such easy checks. Ergo, the moral vision of the young writer is on a tightrope.

Alas, a dilemma. For me. And maybe for you too?

I want to be an exciting writer. I do. I want to tell stories stuffed with reality. I want to be productive. And yet. I worry – all the time – about the effects my words will have. Who will see themselves in the pages of my novel? Who will be hurt by a particularly raw blog post? Who are the psychic casualties of my creations?

Mailer’s words in the passage above hit me. They also haunt me. Because I do not think I will ever be that insensitive surgeon he conjures, slicing away without pondering the possible scope of psychic scars. I don’t think I will ever achieve that stark level of insensitivity Mailer seems to prescribe. Does this mean I will never be the writer I could be?

Maybe.

Thankfully, even Mailer seems to acknowledge the grays here. It is one thing to write honestly and openly without undue anxiety about harming others. It is another thing to write without filter, dumping the contents of our heads and hearts – however hurtful and harmful – onto that blank page or blank screen.

Alas, Mailer’s tightrope. And the writer’s dilemma. And the blogger’s dilemma.

Wait. It’s not just the writer’s dilemma or the blogger’s dilemma.

This is the person’s dilemma.

How do we make decisions and take actions and live our lives freely and fully without being paralyzed by a fear of harming others, of scarring souls and selves dear (and less dear) to us?

____________________________

• As a writer or blogger (writers are bloggers are writers), do you worry about whom your words might affect?
• Have you ever felt creatively or personally paralyzed by a fear of harming others?
• Do you agree with Mailer that we need to achieve a certain modicum of insensitivity in order to become nuanced and exciting writers (and people)?
• Has anything you have ever written hurt someone you love?
  
• How do we fashion a balance between creative freedom and interpersonal respect?
• Do you enjoy reading writing books? Any favorites?

The other day, I was trading emails with my friend The Kitchen Witch (or “Kitch” as she is affectionately known in this neck of the bloggy woods). Anyway, in one of my emails to her, I closed by asking her how her “belly baby” was. No, that’s not the uber-popular “baby belly.” That would’ve been cuter. But I was going for unique. And so. I said “belly baby” as in how is the baby in your belly?

(Who says this? Why not an old school “how are you feeling?”)

Anyway, Kitch responded. Was kind. And then at the end of her email, she said, “What belly baby?” And as I read her words, I turned white. (I think. I didn’t have a mirror. I must have though.)

Truth be told, I was multi-tasking. Emailing two (okay, about seven) people at once. And information about one person bled with the next and I ended up asking this friend about her pregnancy and she is decidedly not pregnant.

And so. I promptly apologized. Hit send. And then beat myself up. Big time. And then I got the most wonderful email back from Kitch which read:

Eh, who gives a shit? I arrived for [my daughter's] parent-teacher conference an entire day early, so I think we all have the same dang Mommy Brain. We’re all losing it, truthfully.

Now. Those of you who know me know that I don’t curse on this blog. And if I were staying true to my mommy morals, I would have edited the above and said “Eh, who gives a shiitake?” But sometimes. Sometimes, life calls for a naughty little word.

And so.

Shit.

I have Mommy Brain.

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• Tell me about your best (or worst) Mommy Brain (or Daddy Brain or Human Being Brain) moments and make me feel a bit better. Pretty please.
• Have you ever gotten in trouble while corresponding with several people at once over email?
• Do you think something actually happens to our brain once we become parents (or just older creatures) that makes us do really embarrassing things?
• Do you make exception to your moral/interpersonal rules every now and then?
• Will you forgive me for cursing?
• (Will I forgive me for cursing?)

ILI DAILY CHARM: SISTER C PASSED THE NY BAR EXAM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Three months ago, on the day Sister C sat for the New York State Bar Exam, I wrote a post called Baby Before Bar in which I expressed my pride in C for doing things her own way. For welcoming her gorgeous little guy before sitting for that dreadful but necessary test. I said then that I had immense faith that all would go well and that she would pass that beast of an exam. And she did! Congrats, C! I am so so proud. And thrilled that Mommy Brain didn’t sabotage your testing efforts

I have a friend. She is an aspiring actress. When she is not auditioning or acting, she waits tables at one of my favorite restaurants. A few weeks ago, this friend told me a story.

She told me that her friend – another waitress at this restaurant – was working one Friday night when Katie Holmes and her daughter Suri walked in. This friend of my friend said that Katie Holmes was impossibly thin and looked very tired. That little Suri wore a filthy nightgown and bunny slippers.

So what?

Good question.

This friend of my friend said that Katie was very normal and very nice. I’m not sure what that means, but it sounds like a good thing. Apparently, Mrs. Cruise was very polite when she ordered herself a tea and her little girl a cupcake. Fine.

Katie and Suri sat together. Mother and daughter. Apparently, Suri did not say one word. Not one. And she didn’t eat her cupcake, but played with it. Poked holes in the frosting with her little finger. Normal kid stuff.

This friend of my friend, the waitress, said that by the time Katie turned to go with her little princess in tow, there were dozens of photographers outside. Waiting to pounce. To get that money shot of this mother and daughter duo.

And I guess they did. I know because I saw those photos in the gossip magazines I read out of weakness and wonder. I saw the sad eyes of a stretched mother. And the plush slippers of a young child.

This friend of my friend said she felt sorry for Katie. For the fact that she couldn’t buy tea and baked goods in peace. For the fact that she would never be alone or anonymous.

But me? I’m torn.

On the one hand, I feel for this mother. That could have been any of us, ducking from city streets into a hushed haven for caffeine and cupcakes, holding the hand of a strong-willed kid in soiled pajamas.

On the other hand, my sympathy has limits. This woman chose to tether herself to a wild world and a conspicuous man. To tread a public path. To become an object of scrutiny in exchange for bright lights and money and fame. And maybe for love too.

But where I’m not torn is that little girl. A girl who never dons the same outfit twice. A girl who is allowed to wear lipstick and high heels in public. A girl who is four and drinks milk from a bottle. A girl whose slippers become photographic fodder for strangers (like yours truly) to savor.

A girl who has no choice.

Rewind two paragraphs. The one that begins “But where I’m not torn…” The plan was to end this post after the “A girl who has no choice” bit. But now. I reread my own words. And I detect judgment. I am judging a mother, a person, I don’t know based on perceptions. Perceptions sold to me at a newsstand. I see tiny heels and bright lips and I say to myself (never aloud), Now that is not a good mother. A good mother wouldn’t do those things.

But now. I don’t know. Maybe it is because I am a writer and I mine my material. Maybe it is because I am a mother and I know better. We all try. We all fail. We all do things of which we are less than proud. And most of us don’t have a pack of hungry men on our tail eager to memorialize our failures.

And so. I don’t know. I sit here. Away from the bright lights that flash in a little girl’s eyes, not knowing. Judging, always judging, but never knowing.

I think I feel for both of them. Mother and daughter.

I think we should all be able to have our quiet bunny slipper moments. Where we are free from flashes and eyes. Where we can sip tea and poke frosting in peace.

And so. I am waffling on this one. No sympathy. Real sympathy. Somewhere in between.

Waffling or no, I still feel for that little girl. A product of parents, yes. But also a product of our own prejudices and preoccupations. I hope she is allowed to be a kid. To do her thing. To watch cartoons. To skip on sidewalks and in open fields. To have play dates. To snuggle. To smile.

To be a kid.

I don’t know this little girl. None of us does. But I hope these things.

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• Do you feel for celebrity parents or do you think they have chosen their paparazzi plight?
• Do you worry about the little ones you see splashed on the pages of gossip magazines?
• Why do you think we are so interested in celebrity stories and celebrity struggles? To feel better about our own flaws and less-glittery lives?
• Why do you think we are so quick to judge other parents and people when we never know the whole story? Is this more about our own insecurities as people and parents?

I believe in short sentences. And long love.

I believe in big dreams. And small changes.

I believe in deep laughter. And shallow fun.

I believe in good friends. And bad television.

I believe in straight talk. And crooked timber.

I believe in baby cheeks. And adult peaks.

I believe in missing parts. And found wholes.

I believe in fleeting answers. And tiny dancers.

I believe in rainbow smiles. And clear tears.

I believe in transparent words. And opaque fears.

I believe in lunch pails. And dinner dates.

I believe in careful climbing. And clumsy rhyming.

I believe in loud voices. And quiet choices.

I believe in cluttered selves. And Christmas elves.

I believe in always trying. And sometimes crying.

I believe in wide futures. And tapered pasts.

I believe in random mumbling. And artful stumbling.

I believe in tattered belief. And tailored relief.

I believe in nuanced now. And simple forever.

I believe in proud beginnings.

And humble ends.

______________________________

What do you believe in? (In what do you believe?)