I’ve been whispering and stammering for a year or so now and as I’m actually seeing progress and realizing that this is actually happening I thought it was high time to go public.
I’m writing a book.
Like, right now.
I’ve been “writing a book” for three years, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to admit it.
And now the end is in sight.
There have been bumps. About two years ago, I had this terrible session with an intuitive who told me that she didn’t see a publishing house in my future and that my angels were telling me to write an e-book instead (no hate for the e-book but…) so I got discouraged. I mean if my angels don’t believe I can publish, why should I?
But the one thing I held on to from the intuitive reading was…it’s not time.
I think she was right. I was pushing myself creativly and more needed to unfold for this book to be ready.
So now it’s time to put everything out there and ask.
I need you, YOU who is reading this right now to:
- Subscribe to Trying To Be Good (right now.)
- Make your friend/mother/sister/lover subscribe (right now!)
This is what publishers look at when deciding to take a book on and I need MORE BIGGER numbers to make an impact.
I would love to ask you to take this on. To help me. To send this to all the people you love and tell them that you know a woman who is trying to make her dreams come true and all you have to do is CLICK HERE. But that sounds desperate so I won’t.
You know my shit. I’m funny. It’s once a week. Usually personal. Always free.
Trying To Be Good has been going strong for over 3 years now and I gotta up my game. I gotta get more numbers YO! This is the part of the job I hate the most but I’m doing it. I’m asking.
Please, send this link to all your mothers and their lovers. Tell your friends.
Words you can say are:
This woman is hilarious and she’s writing a book but needs more social media clout so sign up for her blog. It’s awesome and dark and hilarious and you will not regret.
Have you ever heard of Trying To Be Good? It’s a really great blog I follow, kinda bad ass feminist pop-culture slashing hilarity. She posts ugly pictures of herself. Sign up. You won’t regret it. SERIOUSLY SIGN UP RIGHT NOW.
Copy and paste that shit. Tweet it. Facebook it. Use your power!
If everyone reading this gets 4 more friends to sign up we should be good. Let’s make it 5. Puleeeease. Pretty Pullleaassse!
Here’s a sneak preview to get you inspired. No one has read this yet, not even my husband.
We’re in the chemo room. All the patients are hooked up to drips and wires. Nurses are shh-sshing around in white slippers and every once in a while, a station starts beeping frantically; so all the slack-jawed, sleeping old people startle awake at exactly the same time.
There is a woman beside us yelling to her deaf mother who is getting chemo “…so I Facebooked my friend last week and I sent her some personal information about my life, my situation…and then a few days later, this friend didn’t really respond the way I would have liked. It was kind of a…cold response, like we weren’t really close friends…and then it turned out she wasn’t my actual friend. It was a different friend then the one I thought I was writing to, more of an acquaintance. You know the type? But you have to be careful with this kind of thing because now she has my personal information and could hold it against me. Maybe she will post it publicly on my Wall? Maybe she’ll spam me? Who knew there was more than one Sarah Wilson on Facebook? Anyway…I’m famished. I’m going out to get some chili. Ma, are you sleeping yet?”
This woman just keeps nattering away and I want to break the leg of my chair off and use it to smash the back of her skull in a lateral motion so her neck juts forward and not only does her brain cave in, but she gets major whiplash in the bargain. I want to stop the sound coming from her face-hole; instead, I scowl at her and rip shut the curtains of our section.
My mom is curled up in a blanket. She is listening to a relaxation meditation on her iPod. She is also eating a muffin, darning a sweater and reading up on glaucoma.
The baby is kicking. The little shit feels like a ninja. I sneak an Ativan from Mom’s drug supply; I briefly clock that stealing anti-anxiety medication from someone dying of cancer while one is six-months pregnant is truly low vibration. Also, if my child is born with a cleft palate, I will know why. But if my only options to find some peace this afternoon are taking small amounts of sedatives or shit-kicking the hell-cat in the cubicle next to me- I am gambling on the first option being less damaging than the other.
My mother is dying and I don’t believe it. My first child is going to arrive soon and I’m scared I don’t want it. I’m a liar and a cheat and a drama queen and have never been satisfied with God or my own life. I have always wanted more. I know I should have more. I want it all to turn out all right. I want a miracle. I don’t know how to handle all this fear and I’d like to shut it down with a tranquilizer gun.
You know the feeling?
My mom wakes up and smiles at me. I scowl and start complaining about the annoying neighbor I’ve been forced to listen to. Mom pats my hand and says, “Em, it’s only a few more hours. Please try to be good…”
Now, please sign up. Sign everyone up. Copy and Paste this link to your favourite people in the world. Let’s do this.
And let me know when it’s my turn to help you.
ps. Please, before bed tonight. Thank you. So. Much.