Gutting it Out

I spent yesterday working on a 2000-word essay. Remember when I said 2000 takes me two hours? Yeah, well, yesterday I took me more than fifteen. I sat down at my desk at 8 am and besides meals and pacing back and forth late in the evening, I was chained to my laptop until past 1 am.

See, on Sunday afternoon, I was researching publishers to pursue after my manuscript is complete. I found a few, including one called Seal Press, a women's publishing house that's less scrapbooker and more Sex & the City. On their home page, there was a call for submissions for a new anthology called something like Ask Me About My Divorce.

OMG. As the kids say.

Those who know me well know that my divorce was a defining moment of my life. I was 26 years old, depressed and I weighed approximately two pounds. The years I was married were the worst of my life, so when my ex left on our second anniversary, New Year's Eve no less, it truly was the best thing that ever happened to me. It just took me awhile to figure that out.

So seeing a call for submissions for a personal essay on one of my favourite topics was super-sonically thrilling. The only trouble was, the deadline for submission was August 1st. I was a week late.

I emailed the editor, saying that I saw the deadline, but wondered if:
a) she had more than enough genius submissions to fill three anthologies, thank you,
b) she thought late people should be shot from a cannon off the face of the earth, or
c) she was hoping to receive a last-minute submission from a woman whose husband left on their 2nd anniversary when she was 26 and who decided she was going to laugh her way through this dammit and ended up becoming a dating columnist and television personality, specializing in such topics as 'Is Your Bathroom Date Friendly?' and 'Five CDs Guaranteed to Get You to Third Base.'

She emailed me less than an hour later saying she'd love to read my essay. Which was great! Except that I didn't have an essay.

I had half a self-help book. I had a one-woman show. I had hundreds of columns and articles with a reference here or an insight there. But I didn't have a well-crafted 2000 - 4000 word personal essay with the underlying message of: I got divorced and it rocked my world.

But I told her she'd have it in 24 hours nonetheless. Because I have serious problems with people-pleasing and over achievement.

So, why did writing my favourite story, the story I've told on four million occasions, take me ten times longer than it probably should have? There was some over-analysis, sure. I also think my Big Bad Awesome Divorce story has been dwarfed in importance by the Living My Dreams In Paris story. Which, of course, is a good thing.

But really, I think I just learned the big lesson of memoir: there are an infinite amount of ways to tell any story.

I toiled for ten solid hours and four versions before something came out of it that would pass as focused, publishable work. I called around begging for readers and feedback, but it's summer and it was dinnertime and the entire world was on a deck someplace enjoying BBQed meat. While I slumped in my sweatpants, my hair still bed-heady, with no bra. (Too much info? Sorry.)

Desperate for immediate feedback, I made Boyfriend read a story he's probably heard just about enough of in his life. His detailed feedback? "It was good."

Twelve hours in, I kept combing through it, changing a word here, a comma there. I'd completely lost sight of the point of the essay, let alone the point of the collection it was part of. I started to wonder if I'd ever actually been married or if that was part of some grand shower-deprived delusion.

At 10:20 my sister called with feedback. At 11 my writer-editor friend D did, too. I reworked the piece with their suggestions – which were very good and, thankfully, not conflicting. At midnight, it was done. Only I didn't have a title. I wandered around the house. I brainstormed titles with Boyfriend, who came up with some good ones, but really just wanted to see Michael Phelps race. At one am, I typed in a title, pressed Save and sent it off.

And now I wait. Hoping that the anthology editor reads it today and doesn't say, "Midnight doesn't count as Monday, sweetie. And your writing stinks too. You're OUT." Hoping, instead, she says, "Dude, this is seriously hot shit and you are a seriously hot writer. You're IN."