Closet Writer

I feel like I'm at an AA meeting right now.

"Hi, my name's Amy Sonnichsen and I'm an aspiring writer."

I've been a closet writer for a long time. One of the reasons I started this blog was because I thought I was ready to come out of the closet. Unfortunately, I've let fear get the better of me, and I've stayed mostly in the closet. I'll lurk at the door and peek out, but mainly I stick with the safe things: writing about my kids, about funny China things, avoiding the fact that I spend a good chunk of time writing novels for 12- to 15-year-old young adults.

So, here I am - ta da!

Why have I felt foolish coming out in the open about the fact that I write novels?

Probably the main reason is fear: fear of rejection, fear of failure. What if I'm never published? What if I go on being an aspiring writer the rest of my life? Is all this time I'm spending on my novels a waste of time?

I think what's finally given me the courage to come out is that I've realized what I'm doing isn't a waste of time. No matter what happens.

Why?

Because this journey I'm on is faith-stretching and makes me grow.

The world of publishing is a jungle. I didn't realize this fact when I started this expedition. I started off on a pleasure walk, and have ended up somewhere close to the Amazon fighting wild boars and wading through piranha-infested waters.

A blog I follow, QueryTracker.net, gave the following statistics:

"Writing can be a discouraging business. Less than 1 out of 100 writers who completes and queries a novel receives an offer of representation from a literary agent. Those lucky and/or talented enough to be in that 1% are still not guaranteed the joy of seeing their book in print. Only something like 60% of agented books sell to publishers (That includes books from established authors)."

Bottom line: aspiring writers like me have a tough go of it. And there's no guarantee of light at the end of the tunnel. Rejection is real, almost constant. Even if I'm the next Eudora Welty, there's still no guarantee anyone's going to feel passionate enough about my books to represent me. They need books that will sell. They're in it for the money. No one's pretending otherwise.

Where's the encouragement in all this? Why should I come out of the closet when there's so much set against me?

1. Humility: realizing it's okay to fail at something in front of other people
2. Transparency: letting people know my struggles
3. A chance to grow: I'm learning stuff all the time

In the spirit of that last point, if I'm learning things, maybe I can share them. Maybe they'll help other people who are going through different, but similar, struggles. It's not just aspiring authors who can relate to the fear of failure, the fear of watching a dream die -- we all can relate to that in some way or other.

We're in this journey together. Cheesy? Definitely. True? Absolutely.

So, greet me, get to know me, give me a virtual hug. I'm Amy Sonnichsen, and one of the many hats I wear is the dunce's cap of an aspiring writer.

Pudge

Anyone wanna kiss a baby?
Isn't she scrumptious?

So Much for Spring

We woke up this morning to snow flurries. Sheesh!

Those radiators, cool to the touch, aren't so great to touch anymore. Now, I just keep hoping the government will have a heart and send a little bit more warm water trickling through the pipes.

Hauled out the winter coats from their vacuum bags. They were all so nicely laundered too.

Worst of all, my owls are missing. I noticed a few days ago that someone had moved one of the toppled over satellite dishes from one side of that roof to the other. I hope they didn't mess with my owls, because I haven't seen tail or feather of them for about five days. growl. Hopefully they just had a little scare and are lying low. I hope they didn't move their nest all together. I'm missing them already....

At least I got a picture of one of them (or at least his back). It's the best picture I've been able to get.

Miss Puke

Yes, that's me on coronation day. Thank you very much. I received the coveted Miss Puke sash. I've been crowned and robed. Quite a spectacle.

I have so many people to thank! But most of all, the person who made this all possible ... my baby daughter Sophie. She gagged on phlegm and chose me to barf all over. Thanks, honey! I'll never forget it.

Spring

Radiators cool to the touch.

From my window, tree branches fuzzy green.
Up close, tiny, folded leaves.

Leave the window open.
More sunlight, more air, more blue.

Spring tickles my nose -- achoo!

Glass and Paprika

Mistake #1: I somehow didn't communicate to my son that when you push the button lock on a door and then close it, the door is locked. And if you are not inside the room when the door is locked, well, then you're locked out. After he did exactly what I have just described, and I said, "Gabe! You just locked us out of the laundry room!" -- he looked at me and smiled like he didn't believe me. He tried the door himself. It didn't budge. Of course.

Mistake #2: I let Anna sit on the kitchen counter. She was helping me make cookies. She was supposed to be stirring the eggs and butter together.

Mistake #3: I left the room for five minutes because Sophie was crying in the other room. Five minutes.

Crash! "Mah-om!"

Dashing back into the kitchen, I found rusty brown powder spewed from one end of the kitchen floor to the other. At the end of the trail was a factured spice jar with "Paprika" printed on it. Scattered broken glass winked at me from the white tile.

"What happened?" I demanded, picking my way through the kitchen to where Anna was sitting on the counter, wide-eyed.

She explained that the paprika had fallen off the shelf. It was an accident.

"But why were you in the cupboard?" I asked.

"I needed to put in the ingredients," she replied.

That's when I looked in the bowl and saw the entire contents of our bag of sugar dumped in and stirred up.

"Okay, everybody stay where you are," I said, turning to fetch the broom.

I tried the handle to the laundry room where the broom is kept right next to the door.

Locked.

Sweeping up the glass and paprika with a dolly-sized broom and dustpan borrowed from my two-year-old is a brand of tedium I hope never to repeat.

Friend Owl

I have a friend, an owl friend.

He lives on the roof opposite us. I see him sitting up there, his head just peeking out over the lip of the roof. Sometimes he sits on the roof's satellite dish. Usually he sits there in the morning or as dusk is falling, and his silhouette stands out black against the periwinkle sky.

I love looking for my friend Owl. I check for him when I open or close my curtains. When I wake up in the morning, I automatically peek the crack in the curtains to see if my he's there.

We don't see much nature here in Tianjin. Even bugs are pretty special. Seeing my friend Owl makes me feel like I'm watching the National Geographic channel.

At night I lie in bed and listen to my friend Owl. His call is a short, low whistle. Not a hoot at all.

Tonight I had a wonderful surprise. I came into my bedroom, the curtains were open, the sky was fading from blue to black, like a bad bruise, and the first thing I saw was my owl sitting on the satellite dish ... with his mate.

Two owls.

Maybe I've been watching two owls all the time and didn't know it.

I've always been a bit sad that my friend Owl was alone. When I'd hear him calling in the night, it sounded lonesome; the sound evaporating into the cold night air.

Now, I know he's been calling to someone. And someone answered.

The Rigmarole II

More mundanity (a word that may conveniently rhyme with insanity) from the Sonnichsen household....

Woke up this morning. Dashed around getting Livi and Gabe out the door for school. Once this was completed I looked around the house. Complete disaster area. I was out late quilting at a friend's house last night, so I didn't really do my usual "tidy up" routine before heading to bed.

Sophie woke up and I changed her clothes. Her diaper had leaked a little on the side, so I had to change everything, even the onesie.

I put her in her ultrasaucer and tried to start tidying. After all, it was Tuesday morning.

A little while later, Sophie started to fuss. Picked her up and smelled the poop smell. Carried her into the bedroom and laid her down on my unmade bed. Didn't even check her back.

Note to self: Always check a poopy baby's back before laying her down on the bed.

Realized very quickly that Sophie had pooped up her back. So now there was poop all over the clothes I'd just dressed her in, and all over the sheets ... and as I removed the sheets, all over the mattress pad.

Ran bath water. Anna walked in and wanted to take a bath with Sophie. Great!

Anna stripped off her clothes.

I started the dribble-dribble of water. (We love living on the sixth floor, but lack of water pressure is one of the downsides.) Anna jumped in and got out her cups. Favorite game lately is standing in the bathroom filling up cups of water and emptying them out into the tub, or setting them in a row on the side of the tub. Free entertainment for hours.

Stripped off Sophie's clothes. Wiped her down as best I could with a wet wipe. Carried naked baby into the bathroom and sat her in her bath ring.

I love her bath ring. I think it would be next to impossible for her to drown in the tub while in the bath ring. With this in mind, I felt comfortable leaving the two girls in the tub (with about an inch of water, due to the dribble-dribble and all the cup-filling) while I pulled the sheets off the bed -- and the mattress pad -- and started the washing machine.

Came back in to check on the girls. Anna's sitting there with an empty bottle of baby body-and-hair wash.

"Mommy, I wanted bubbles!" she said, as soon as she saw me.

Of course, she'd used the last of our baby body-and-hair wash to get bubbles.

Anna got a stern talking-to. The only thing that saved her from a bottom slap was the way she looked up at me with her big eyes and said, "Sorry, Mommy. I didn't know."

Nevermind that I've told her about ten times to ask me for bubbles and not to try to make them herself. Call me a softy.

As I started washing Sophie, I realized that most of the baby body-and-hair wash had been poured on the side of baby bath ring and was now all over Sophie's arms and hands and in her mouth.

The bathwater was also extremely slippery. I tried to wash Sophie, but rinsing her just made her soapier. Soapy Sophie. Ha!

Took one of Anna's cups (much to her chagrin), stood Sophie up and rinsed her with clean, dribble-dribble water that could not decide on a consistent temperature.

Carried Sophie out, hoping she wouldn't pee on the fresh sheets I just put on the bed. Dressed her. Put her in ultrasaucer, crying.

Rinsed Anna. Got her out of the tub. She got dressed.

Looked at the clock. 8:30. Still in my pajamas. The house still a disaster area. Sophie squawling in the ultrasaucer.

Picked up my robe. Noticed saffron-yellow baby poop smeared on the collar. No idea how that happened. Added robe to towering pile of laundry.

No need to continue. You get the idea....

Household Help

I have a compulsion.

Most Tuesday mornings, if you were to visit my house, you would find me rushing around, throwing laundry into the washing machine, putting the books we've been reading back on the shelves, folding blankets, hanging up coats, putting shoes back in the shoe cupboard, sweeping.

Why?

Because our helper, He Ayi ("Auntie He" in English), comes on Tuesdays, and I am giving in to the compulsion I have every Tuesday morning of tidying up before she gets here.

(Keep in mind that I am the type of person who makes the beds in hotel rooms so it won't be messy for the maid. It drives my husband bananas.)

For those of you who have never had household help, you will probably think I'm crazy. Why would I tidy up when I have a housekeeper coming who can clean up for me?

Probably part of it is good-will. I don't want her to have WAY too much work to do. I don't want her to think I'm a preschooler who can't clean up after myself.

Which leads to another part of it: pride. That I don't want anyone to see my house in it's raw, Tuesday-morning state, not even Ayi, who is practically part of the family.

Then there's the other part of it: practicality. If I leave everything scattered around the house as it usually is on a Tuesday morning, then all that stuff will be put away. Put away in all the wrong places. (She means well, but this inevitably is the case.) So, it's actually labor-saving for me to run through the house stuffing pajamas in the correct drawers, piling up the clothes that really are dirty in the hamper and putting all the other ones away, putting the library books on a separate shelf from the books we own so that I can actually find them on library day.

So, there is method in the madness. Not to mention that the realization that Ayi's coming is a fantastic motivator. I work harder on Tuesday mornings than I work all the other mornings of the week.

I wonder what I'll do next year without that accountability. Just live in dirt, grime and disorganization 'til I sink into a gloomy depression? Hmmm....

Hopefully not.

The Ins and Outs of Teeth

We've had a lot of tooth action around here lately.

As Olivia lost her first top tooth....

(Olivia's on the left, Anna on the right)

...Sophie got her first bottom tooth.

When Aaron felt her tooth coming through and told me about it, my first sensation was disbelief. Then sadness. Then despair. (Well, okay, that's melodramatic.) After all, Sophie's our last baby. Our last baby is getting her first tooth.

It's the beginning of the end.

Next thing I know, she'll be going off to college and I'll be standing there -- a thirty year old in a fifty-year-old's body saying, "What happened?"

Please join with me in whistling "Sunrise, Sunset" from Fiddler on the Roof. It doesn't matter where you are in the world. I think it's only appropriate.

Meanwhile, in other news from the Sonnichsen homestead: Gabe's expanded nose has now turned purple. I was also very embarrassed to hear that he's been picking out bloody boogers while on the schoolbus, eating them, and seriously grossing out the other passengers. I just hope he'll grow up to be a nice boy that people will want to be around. Sheesh!

Anna was pretty cute tonight. I made punch for my friend Janella's baby shower, but I had a lot of the frozen part left over. She was helping me "make" the leftover punch, ie. put the frozen part in a jug and pour Sprite over it. I put the frozen part in and she said, "Mommy, how do you punch it?"

"What?" I asked, confused.

"How do you punch it, Mommy?"

It took me a few moments to figure out what she was really asking.

Of course, I had to laugh.

So, here they are, five of my very favorite people. They're a fun group with whom to go through the ins and outs of life.

More Boy

Gabe this morning, when he saw himself in the mirror: "Mommy, I look weird!"

More of you to love, Gabe, more of you to love.

Boy of the Crooked Nose

Today while coming home from school, running up our concrete stairs, Gabe fell, smacking his nose onto the edge of a step.

He didn't break the fall with his hands, so his nose took the full impact.

After it stopped bleeding, I called a few friends to ask for advice. I'd always heard there wasn't much you could do for a broken nose, so I didn't really have a plan of action.

Because his nose actually looked crooked (the picture above really doesn't do it justice), my friend suggested I take him to the doctor.

Diagnosis: possible hairline fracture; swelling on one side of the nose makes it appear crooked; bone felt straight to the doctor; no x-ray needed. **relieved sigh**

So, Gabe continues to be the most accident-prone member of the Sonnichsen family. His list of injuries include: two head wounds (one from a swing, one from another set of stairs); a pierced lip (when he fell off a chair and his tooth went through his lip); and now a possibly broken nose. Anna follows in second place with a split upper lip from pulling a lamp down on herself. Olivia wins the award for least-likely-to-get-hurt; unless you're talking miniscule finger scrapes that require excessive bandaging and arm slings (but that's another story for another blog post).

Still no confirmed broken bones, so I guess we're not doing too badly....