You’re Doing it Wrong (But That’s OK)

“Do the best you can until you know better. Then when you know better, do better.” — Maya Angelou

Having a dog again after years without one has brought up many of the same emotions I had as a new mother. There’s excitement in watching him learn. There’s joy in the moments when his playfulness comes out. But there’s also frustration when he behaves in a way I didn’t expect. You’d think I would find these feelings, as a mid-lifer rather than a young parent, more funny than anxiety-inducing. 

You would be wrong.

When Sirius chews on my computer wire as I’m trying to write, pokes me in the back of the leg with his toy while I’m walking with a cup of hot coffee, or climbs up on the furniture to look out the window, I use the commands I know he understands. 

“Drop it. That’s not for you.”

“No. Settle.” 

“Sirius, down.”

But when he seemingly ignores me or gets even more persistent, I question my ability as a dog owner. 

He recognizes the words. He knows what they mean. Why, then, does he sometimes obey and other times not? I mentally review our morning. We’ve walked. We’ve played. He pooped. He’s been fed. Now he should be lying down so I can work. So what’s the problem? What am I missing?

I’m not saying every new pet owner would feel the same as I do. In fact, I think the anxiety stems from my philosophy about caring for a dependent. As a mother, like many expectant mothers, I had read all the books and prepared as best as I could. And like many new mothers, I found all that preparation helped only a tiny bit.

Why isn’t the baby sleeping? Why does he cry so much? Is he sick? In pain? Hungry? Suffering in some invisible way I can’t see? I’ve done everything I’m supposed to do. Why isn’t it enough?

What am I doing wrong?  

Did I consider the fact that this was a new creature in my house and the world, one who was learning how to be a part of our family, how to express himself and understand us at the same time? No. As a new mother, I believed the answer to all these questions was that I was inadequate.

But why? Why do so many mothers feel this overwhelming sense of inadequacy, failure and guilt? I don’t think it’s hormones, sleep-deprivation or lack of knowledge. Nor do I think it’s because of social media, parenting magazines or random strangers on the street offering unsolicited advice. 

I think it’s because we care. 

We care so much about the well-being and happiness of this new life in our home, we are so devoted to its health and ability to thrive, that it is not merely a job. Yes, it’s work. A lot of work. But it’s work that matters. We have a desire to nurture, teach, comfort and help this baby blossom. We want him to grow up and make the world as wonderful as he’s made our lives. 

Wrongly, we think that if we do everything we’re told we’re supposed to do, the baby (or in my case, new dog) will sleep well, eat well, suffer minimally and be generally happy all the time. Perhaps it’s because we haven’t learned to think of this new life as an individual with wants and needs it can’t yet fully articulate or express. Or perhaps we underestimate just how complex the role of caretaker truly is. 

As a mother, this underestimation turned out to be a good thing for me. Did that naïveté drive my anxiety? Probably. But it’s also what kept me going each day, mulling the questions in my mind and looking for new potential solutions. It’s what gave me the courage to keep trying, even when I felt like I was failing. It’s what forced me to listen to my baby tell me what he needed, rather than insisting he take what I was offering because I’d been told it should be enough.

All change is uncomfortable. Without that anxiety, I don’t think I would have grown as much as I did. Listening to the needs of my kids made me question what I could do differently, or better. It made me a more empathetic person, and a more critical thinker. It also helped me realize what I could accomplish when I really focused on hearing them, instead of just going through the motions. It convinced me that no one is a failure if they are willing to keep trying.

Now, in mid-life, Sirius has rekindled all of those feelings of inadequacy in me. Sure, I could do without the anxiety this new dynamic has brought on. But what it tells me is that I’m not done growing. I may be doing it wrong. But Sirius seems happy to help teach me for as long as I’m willing to keep trying.

It started me thinking. What if everyone cared enough to try to understand, not just babies and dogs, but each other? What if we started listening when others tell us what they need from us, instead of just giving them what we’ve always given them? 

As my kids taught me, respect means letting others be heard. Caring means ensuring their needs get met. We all deserve that. But it will only happen if we, and others, are willing to listen and learn.

The Honeymoon Is Over

It had been a full month since Sirius joined our pack, and the shields were down. The first week we had him, he was a caricature of a “good dog”. He observed intently, to understand how things worked in our house. He obeyed. And when something was unfamiliar, he learned quickly whether it was allowed (dogs in the kitchen) or not (dogs on the furniture). He didn’t even bark. He was clearly on his best behavior, showing us what a perfect pet he would be, if we’d only give him the chance. It felt like a first date.

Four weeks in, let’s just say things changed.

Once the honeymoon period ended, Sirius relaxed into the realization that he was here to stay. Ever since, as each day passed, we saw glimpses of his personality peeking through. His intelligence, for instance. His first vet visit yielded some meds he needed to take. Flea, tick and heart worm prevention began, in separate pills on separate days. It didn’t take him long to figure out that these were not yummy things I was offering. Even though he knew where we kept the dog biscuits, and I put the medicine in the same cabinet, he became suspicious of any round ‘treat’ I offered him. 

We also realized he’s got chutzpah. And possibly some Border Collie in him. Although he knew we were the alpha dogs, this didn’t prevent him from trying to ‘herd’ us on the stairs to keep us from moving away from the front door (through which he was always eager to leave). He’d bound up and stand on the stair in front of me to prevent me from reaching the top of the staircase. After our morning walk each day, I’d sit down to have coffee and check my emails. But that’s when he wanted to play. If he was too worked up to take no for an answer, he would repeatedly poke me with his nose or nip at my elbow and knee while I was seated at the table. He’d also bring me a toy and nudge me with it until I responded. Clearly, he thought I was not very bright and need repeated training to understand what he was trying to tell me. 

Finally, if you read my earlier post about the dog with no voice, you needn’t worry. He’s since found it. In spades. Car or truck going by us while we’re out walking? He would leap and bark as if it was a dragon trying to eat me. Another dog spotted down the street that he wanted to make his best friend? He’d bark so much and so loudly that the poor owner figured he was too aggressive and turned to go in the other direction. Neighbor kids playing outside? He’d pull and bark to get me down there so he could say hello. He went from caricature to character.

I was thrilled that he was comfortable and willing to let his personality come through. I was happy that any anxiety he initially harbored about being passed from home to home finally abated. But I worried his personality would just get bigger and stronger if I didn’t do something soon.

So I planned to look into training. For me. Because ask either of my kids and you’ll learn what a pushover I was when they were growing up. It’s because I loved them so much, and always wanted them to be happy. But Sirius had sass and strength, and was wicked smart. And he didn’t understand time-outs. So I’d need to learn  how to be a good Alpha Dog, and make sure he knew it. 

Otherwise I would never get to drink another morning cup of coffee again.

“Dropped ice cream” by deux yeux is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

The Dog With No Voice

First day canine antics aside, it wasn’t long until I was smitten with Sirius/Exeter. He was playful, smart, in tune with our body language and improving daily on our leashed walks (read: he no longer dragged me down the street, and would stop walking when I said ‘wait’). Most importantly, he was the biggest, mushiest love bug. Leave it to a Mom to fall in love with all those traits. The rest of the family, though, was not fully on board with the idea of keeping him past Tuesday. 

“You guys do what you want, but I’m not going to get too attached to the dog,” my 20-year-old avowed. We suspected lingering loyalties to our sweet Bailey, who we lost some eight years ago. But I knew that, in time, Ben would come to love this new dog too, given the chance. He was not my biggest hurdle.

We’d gotten Sirius on a Saturday. By Monday afternoon, my husband said, “we should probably have a conversation about the dog.” His tone suggested I shouldn’t get too attached either. But it was too late.

Hubby wasn’t really interested in adopting a dog. I understood. Exeter/Sirius is only about two years old, which translates to a 10- to 15-year commitment, and would mean a lot of responsibility. Still, I made my case.

“Yes, he’ll have to be walked multiple times a day, and I’m willing to take that on. Get my steps in, and all that,” I said. And before my husband could point out that winter was just around the corner, I said, “Yes, even in winter. I’ll layer.”

He didn’t seem convinced, and I admit I sounded like a kid who wants a puppy and swears up and down they will take care of everything the animal needs. We all know how that story goes.

“Have you noticed how much he’s learned in just the past couple of days?” I asked, referring to how well the dog had adapted to our daily routine, listened to commands and loved to play whatever game we came up with to entertain him. 

My husband did concede the dog was very smart and sweet. 

“And he loves our neighbors!” I went on. “He’s good with every kid and dog that he’s come into contact with!” Did I sound desperate? Could he hear the exclamation point at the end of my every sentence?

“The neighbors wouldn’t be adopting him, we would,” he said, still not convinced.

I had one card left up my sleeve. True, it concerned me somewhat. I wasn’t even sure whether anyone else had picked up on this fact, or what was causing it. Maybe it was a temporary thing, or maybe it was a medical issue. Maybe it was caused by stress or the fact that Exeter/Sirius never really had an opportunity to learn how to be a dog. But these were questions to delve into later. If the trait would help my case now, I would play it. My ace.

“He hasn’t barked once, have you noticed that?” I asked. “No early morning yapping, no barking at the wind or people walking by. Not even at dogs.” I took a breath. “Hon,” I paused for emphasis, “he’s practically the perfect pet.”

My husband considered this. Sirius/Exeter was lying at his feet, one paw on my husband’s slipper, as if he couldn’t bear the thought of being apart from him, even while sleeping. I pointed this out as well. Yes, I was shameless.

“All right, I guess we have a dog. What has to happen ne–“

“I’ll take care of everything,” I said, rushing to my computer without letting him finish. I wanted to finalize things before he changed his mind. Or Sirius started barking relentlessly.

I’m kind of happy to report that Sirius did eventually bark. It was about four days after we’d completed the adoption process, and he was sitting by the bay window in the living room, sandwiched between me and my husband as we discussed something that was, for once that week, not dog-related. Sirius couldn’t see the street from the window, since we’re on a hill, but he could look up into the pine trees that line our property. Maybe he saw a squirrel or bird. Maybe he just wanted to join in our discussion. Or maybe he is smarter than we realized, understood everything we were saying, and was perturbed at no longer being the topic at hand.

He barked. Once.

It was short, sharp and loud. My husband and I looked at each other, stunned to silence.

“Yes? You have something to say?” he asked Sirius.

And our new Dog Star put his head against my husband’s leg and licked his hand, as if to say,

“I’m just so happy to be home, and I wanted you both to know it.” 

 “shh” by Kradlum is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

The Dog With No Name

Considering how long it takes our family to make a decision about anything (this includes what to have for dinner; make of that what you will), I was pretty sure if we were to ever get another dog, there would be months of planning, discussion and research before we came to ‘yes’.

So I can’t help but credit the Universe for the turn of events that broadsided us that early October day.

One of my dearest friends and a three-dog-owning, foster mom of rescue animals had been trying (unsuccessfully) to get us to foster a dog for ages. She knew, after we lost our sweet Bailey several years ago, our hearts just weren’t ready to open again to a new pet. In her view, fostering would benefit all involved: we’d be able to flirt with the idea of considering pet ownership again, and we’d help dogs on their way to their forever homes, with no long-term commitment necessary. Still my husband resisted.

Enter Exeter. My friend called me on a Thursday with a half-joking question: would we be interested in emergency fostering a 2-year-old German Shepherd mix for the weekend? Just until a new foster family could be found? I needed more information. She sent me a link with a photo, info on the dog, explained that he was in NYC for the night but needed to be placed before Saturday.

I showed my husband the picture and explained the situation.

“It’s just for the weekend. Look, he’s super cute, though what is up with that name?” We laughed, and I reasoned that we still had all the toys, bowls, crate etc. that had belonged to Bailey. Plus, my friend would bring him up from the city for us on Friday! We’d have a beautiful autumn weekend of play and walks, and be doing a good deed. It couldn’t be easier! He was skeptical, but indulged me.

Friday evening, the dog rode the train from NYC to Westchester, then sat the car with my friend, who drove him to our driveway. He was sweet, shy, beautiful and well-behaved. We showed him around the house so he could get his bearings, where he was and wasn’t allowed to go, and immediately put the kibosh on his couch-surfing habit.

After a piddle incident in the playroom (mainly, I assume, due to his nerves and not knowing where the exit was,) he had a walk, drank some water and slept (reluctantly) in his crate.

Saturday, my husband and I went to the local pet store for necessities–dog food, a rope (he really liked tug of war with the smaller toys we already had) and cookies. We had been calling him Exeter, the name the rescue had given him, but he didn’t respond to it and we didn’t particularly like it anyway. Do we change it? we wondered aloud. We only have him for four days. But it’s a dumb name. Yes, but what if an adoptive family wants to rename him something else and he gets used to what we start calling him? My husband said, if he were to rename the dog, he’d call him Sirius, the dog of the hunter Orion, according to Greek mythology. Plus, the dog was black, so we had a neat little Harry Potter reference thrown in to boot (Sirius Black, who’d also had an unhappy, early life).

We decided to start calling him Sirius, though sometimes called him Exeter, afraid to commit to either name, just as we weren’t ready to commit to keeping the dog ourselves. Needless to say, the dog responded to neither name.

Upon returning from the pet store, my husband held open the front door to let me in. Of course, the dog walked out. He stood on the porch a moment as if disbelieving he was actually outside untethered. Then he took off down the driveway, gathering speed as he ran toward the corner and main road nearest to our house.

Calling to him was fruitless, of course. He had tags but no identity. He was a wanderer, a foster, having gone from home to home, south to north, city to suburbs over a matter of weeks.

“No! Exeter! Stop! Come! Sirius! No!”

As I chased him up the block, praying no car would come over the hill and hit him, my 20-year-old son followed me out with a leash. I lost sight of the dog but pointed to where I’d seen him go, and told Ben to keep looking; I was going back for the car.

A million thoughts raced through my mind. What do I tell the rescue? We lost the dog less than 24 hours of getting him? How would I post a “missing dog” status in my community groups?

“Missing: black and brown, German Shepherd mix dog, approximately 45 lbs. Does not answer to any name. Not food-oriented. No owner but has a collar and a chip.” Putting my phone number and address would be as embarrassing as having lost him in the first place.

Was the Universe trying to tell me we were not cut out to be dog parents again? Had we gotten too old, too careless?

By the time my son and husband cornered Exeter-the-Exiter/Sirius two blocks away, he’d befriended a lovely family with two boys and a female dog named Layla. Thankfully, he’s also neutered.

I was winded, the dog was scolded, and we were all too tired for tug-of-war with the new rope. At least, we told ourselves, we’d only have him for three more days. Surely we could manage that.

Narrator: “In fact, they could not manage that.”

Tell Me About It

When I was a child, I learned that adults had very little interest in what I had to say, even though I had A LOT to say. My brain was always working, and talking through my thoughts helped me make sense of them. The problem was, the random, rambling thoughts of a ten-year-old rarely warrant a response.

As I got older, I still processed things better by talking them through. But I learned that, since my brain is always working, doing so would mean my mouth would also be going nonstop. Few friends were tolerant enough to handle that. Eventually, I kept my thoughts to myself or put them down in a journal to avoid alienating others.

Now as an adult, I write. I try to hold my tongue when I’m with others until I have something worth sharing (it doesn’t always work). My point? I trained myself to listen instead of talk.

But now that I have a book of poetry coming out, I find myself hesitant to talk about it. Because it means talking about myself, and my writing, a habit I’ve spent years working to break. So some gracious and lovely friends have arranged an event where I will be encouraged to talk about poetry, my book and myself. This means an interview, readings and a Q&A session.

The bad news is that it’s going to take some practice for me to gear up to talk about myself and my work. The good news is that it means everything I’ll share at my Poetry Preview Party will be thought out and worthwhile for those who join us.

I hope you’ll be one of them!

Click the image for more details!

In the Spotlight

“Spotlight” by Tilemahos Efthimiadis is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0

You know the dream. Everyone has it.

You’re back in high school, walking into a classroom full of your friends and peers, when you look down and realize you’re naked.

Your mind goes blank, and your face gets so hot that you feel as though there’s a spotlight on you.

While everyone is staring.

Analysts say this common dream can be an indication that, among other things, you’re trying to be something you’re not. All writers know this feeling. It’s called imposter syndrome.

It happens when whether we’ve published one book or twenty. That gnawing fear that, despite our years of labor, tears and sweat, this book we’re sending out into the world for others to read and judge is no good. Even though we love it, our agent loves it, our publisher loves it and our friends who’ve read it love it. Even though we’ve poured our hearts into it.

I’m lucky enough to say that today, my publisher is the one shining a spotlight. Finishing Line Press is bringing attention to my forthcoming book of poems, Undressing the Heart, by featuring it on all their social media sites.

Perhaps it’s been a while since you had the dream. But I’ll be you still remember how you felt.

This is exactly what I’ve tried to capture in my poems. A scene, a story, and details enough to evoke emotion in the reader.

Today, my dream is that you’ll consider reserving a copy of my book, and experience the feelings I’ve tried to capture inside it.

Here’s a sample, a poem that was first published at Literary Mama. Thanks for reading!

Unearthed
–For Sarah

As a girl, you used to paint,
low on the walls in corners of your room,
tiny trees and flowers, undetected.

Soon boarding school called;
I was left to rearrange
the furniture, unearth your garden. We spoke

later; you laughed at the standoffs
that sparked those small
rebellions. Such colorful pictures

defiantly raised your young
psyche. Yet you haven’t outgrown
the consolation of such things:

now eighteen, home from school,
I hear you slip nights
into the bathroom — the one I can’t bear

to enter for the mess — and crouch
on the floor in the corner. Now
instead of producing, you peel

the paper. Flowers fall off
in little strips, leaving beneath,
bare blue walls.

I knew my body would
betray me as I aged, yet death
is not the mid-life crisis I’d expected.

But what I’m most sorry for
is what my illness does to us:
strips me by layers of physical strength,

peels you slowly in little
emotional strips until
all that’s left is bare and blue.

Yet you are the unlucky one:
soon my turn will come to go.
But you will remain and be forced

to rearrange, unable to speak
with me about things you may
happen to suddenly unearth.

Poetry’s Draw

“magnetic poetry” by surrealmuse is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

Do you read poetry?

Many people don’t. Some feel poetry is pretentious. Or it makes no sense. Others admit that they don’t know what the poems are supposed to mean.

I’m the first to admit that, as a voracious reader in my youth, I tried reading poetry by those everyone knew: Dickinson, Whitman, Frost. But none of it grabbed me. If it rhymed, it felt trite. If it was about war and soldiers and death, I didn’t get it. And admittedly, as an anxious, ADD, suburban teen in the early 1980s, any poem I encountered with numbered stanzas that went on for several pages never stood a chance of being read to the end.

But then during my thirties, I entered a graduate writing program. Billy Collins was Poet Laureate of the U.S. at the time, and he gave a reading at my school. I was shocked to find the room packed. I sat in the back and thought wait, this is poetry? It was nothing like what I’d read before. It wasn’t sad and mournful. There was no death, pain or dark metaphor. It didn’t need to be deciphered. Some of it was actually funny. This, I decided, was my kind of poetry.

After that, I bought and read much of Collins’ work and was continually encouraged. A couple of years later, an insurance salesman from Nebraska named Ted Kooser was named Poet Laureate. At least, that’s what the bio said in the first book of his poetry I read. Today, several of his books sit on my shelf. My handwritten notes in the margins hint at the poems they’d eventually become.

What changed my mind about poetry, both reading and writing it? It’s a word I hate, but it fits: accessibility.

Collins’ poems held more meaning for me than any Dickinson poems ever did. The Lanyard, which Mr. Collins read that night at my school, made me laugh, tear up and even sigh. I related to it both as the child who’d once woven that lanyard, and the mother who, years later, received it. Collins taught me poems could tell stories and evoke emotion.

Ted Kooser’s poems, on the other hand, captured place, seasons and colorful imagery. His Late February paints a picture of early spring in Nebraska: the small town, its people and how they live.

Each of these poets inspired me. I like to joke that, before I began writing book-length women’s fiction, I was writing emotional truths in poems. An idea would would turn into a scene and I’d imagine what the speaker would see and feel. Those notes would become the poem, a story with an emotional nugget at its heart.

The poems collected in my chapbook, Undressing The Heart, span the years from elementary school’s first crush to teen betrayal, unrequited love, motherhood’s hopes and sacrifices, midlife challenges and regrets of old age. The collection is, like life, full of moments of truth, of realization, resignation and growth. But the poems are also, like life, infused with the hope of better days ahead.

If you do read poetry, what draws you in and holds you?

If you don’t, what do you think you might find in a poem or poet that would change your mind?

On Gratitude

Gratitude is a funny thing. It arises in response to a need being filled, sure. But have you ever had a need go unrecognized until it’s been filled?

Scene: You meet someone casually in the course of a day and answer a question. A comment is made afterward, and a conversation begins. The conversation blooms and continues for years with this new, dear friend who fills a void in your life and heart that you didn’t even know was there. You are grateful for the chance meeting.

Scene: You are asked to train someone for a position you’re leaving, a fact which saddens you because you love the position, but know it’s time to move on. You worry that you won’t train the person well or completely, and the people served by your successor will suffer. Then you meet your replacement and are struck by their curiosity, energy and creativity. Rather than fret, you are excited for the new life they will breathe into the position. You are able move on, not just relieved but inspired. You are grateful for their new perspective, and the potential they bring to the position.

Scene: You feel beaten down and world-weary. But you show up and offer, suggest, help. These efforts feel insignificant and pointless. Still, you smile and keep on, determined to silence the naysayer in your head. Then you receive an unexpected note of thanks, a hug from across the miles. You cry grateful tears to learn your efforts *have* mattered, that you’ve made a difference.

Sometimes it’s hard to feel grateful. Some days, it’s hard to get out of bed in the morning. But getting up, doing good work, making art, reaching out (or just being there when someone reaches out to you), even on the hard days? That is *everything*. Your creativity, kindness and humanity fill absences in others, both known and unknown. And those efforts that feel small and pointless? They generate gratitude in the world. Your actions stir the souls of others, perpetuate goodness, and increase its momentum for when its sent back out into the universe.

The best part? When you least expect it, maybe when you most need it, that goodness will come back around in the best example of karma I know. You’ll learn someone is grateful for you, and it will feel like a gift.

 

Do You Hear Yourself?

I recently participated in an online writing summit, with the opportunity to hear from multiple authors, agents and media speakers. One of the key pieces was a chance to have a query letter critiqued by an agent. As I’m not seeking an agent, I almost dismissed the opportunity, but decided to pull together a draft for my next book anyway. It was partly a writing exercise for myself and partly a way to gather my pitch and ideas for the book.

In the end, I was pretty happy with the letter. It covered genre, word count, main character, inciting incident, and stakes. It included historical details and a bio to show I’m the right person to write it. After a few tweaks, I sent it off for some feedback.

The live critique session took place while I was traveling, so I couldn’t listen in but, thankfully, it was recorded. When I tuned in yesterday, I was happy to hear that my query letter was the first to be read.

And read. And read.

The further the moderator got into my letter, the more I cringed. It was way too long. How did I not notice this before sending?

So many times I come back to this, a lesson I was taught (but clearly often forget) in my very first poetry class: always read your work out loud. Had I done that, I would have heard all the unnecessary details I could have removed before sending the query.

Am I disappointed to have subjected an agent to my long-winded letter? No. Because it served as a lesson to other participants, a reminder to myself, and it set up the letters that followed mine in the critique session to shine brighter. (Because really, who wants to have their work follow something perfect?)

I’m in the midst of revisions on my first book now, and have pasted a prominent post-it note to myself: Read Your Work Out Loud. It’s by far the easiest way to prevent cringe-worthy work from seeing the light of day.

A Champion In My Corner

A funny thing happened on my way to publication: writing stopped being a solitary pursuit. Yes, getting the words down on paper every day is still entirely up to me, but I no longer fear I’m the only one who will ever care about them.

I should clarify. My critique partners care, too. Of course they do. They are always thoughtful in their reading and helpful in their edits. Their feedback on my words (which they read over and over again these past few years, by the way) is what helped me finally secure an agent, to reach this next plateau. They. ROCK. But they also have day jobs, families, laundry, plumbers to call, vacations to plan, and their own writing. You see where I’m going with this?

For the first time in my career, my writing is *someone else’s job* as well as mine. I know my agent has a lot of clients, and she works for all of them. That’s what’s so amazing. Even when I’m tending to other things, someone is still trying to get my book published. It’s not all on me anymore. We’re a team. She can focus on one book while I’m writing another. How many days (weeks?) did I spend writing, editing, cataloguing and updating the status of dozens of query letters? Or researching literary agencies? Or reading craft books and articles so I could make my book better and more likely to find a home?

How many times have I wished I could clone myself so that I could spend all that time writing instead?

That’s what I mean. Now I’ve got help. A partner. A champion. Someone who loves my story as much as I do.

No, the publishing industry doesn’t move nearly as fast as the cyclists in this picture. But my agent and I are moving through it together, and that fact alone has renewed my energy. Some days, just knowing she’s there makes a difference. And some days, that difference is everything.