The Dog Caught the Car

For those not familiar with the writing for more than fun model, professional writers are supposed to make pitches to magazines somewhere between three to six months before a magazine will run the feature.  The editor then says,something like "That sounds good, go for it.  It's due in six weeks or what have you." and the writer then labors to craft what they said they wanted to write.  Because I've mostly stayed in the safe cocoon of writing blogs and one shot wonders, I never pitched. 

Part of it was being a young (in writing terms) writer, I don't think six months ahead.  In my own life, six minutes ahead is pushing it.  But I'd been wanting to grow and the one shot markets with the advent of blogs, have dried up a bit, (Why buy the cow) so I knew I'd have to start branching out if I wanted to continue. 

So last week, I made a pitch.  I got a yes. 

Now I am scared out of my mind that I will finally prove in print, I am an idiot.  Mind you, with typos, mishaps and misspellings, the Internet already has sufficient documentation, but I can always shrug and say, "Hey, it's the Internet. What you gonna do?"  I'm also worried I'll choke.  I have a history of this to back up that fear.  In grade school, whenever the volley ball would be sent my way, it either found the floor or my head but never my perfectly positioned to bump arms. In my biggest dancing role ever in high school, we had these cool pink poodle skirts we were supposed to rip off to reveal pedal pusher shorts when the music switched from the 50's to the 60's.  My skirt fell off 8 counts into the music.  Graduate school, graduation day;  I'm going to have a Master's.  I back up the car at the grocery store and a truck scrapes my door, making the passenger side inoperable.  My history is replete with these sorts of moments.

So now I get to work and I can't wait...but having gotten the first part of the yes, I admit to having a huge wave of stupid wash over me as I stare at the blank page at what is supposed to be a "real" article.  I am the dog that caught the car.  Now what?

Now What?

Today, I made the A team.

I had the Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer moment "I'm Cute. I'm Cute...they said I'm Cute!"

It took 41 years but I did it.

After multiple After school ABC special worthy auditions to volley ball, high school musicals and college dance troops and bands, where I always wondered when I was put in the chorus or on the b-team if they were just having pity on me, today I made the cut. I'm doing standup comedy in front of 400 humor writers in Dayton, Ohio at the close of the Erma Bombeck workshop. 34 brave souls auditioned. 12 will perform.

I'm first.

Suddenly, that bench warming spot is looking very comforting.

It's not that I'm afraid of public speaking. Speaking my mind has never been much of a problem. I'm afraid I'll bomb.


You see, every time I write a piece, the instant it's polished and published, I have three seconds of peace and then the nags begin.


That was a good piece.
What if that's the last funny I ever write?
What if there is no more in the tank?

Oh No!

And then I get to reading and obsessing and following my toddlers around writing terrible first drafts about the fight they're having over two wooden blocks and who gets to stare at the cereal box while they eat.


I've pointed out that neither of them can read but this never seems to matter much.


Six half sputter starts later, I'll throw the notebook into my huge bag of must come everywhere with me stuff and call my husband about the dry spell.


“Sherry, you just got a piece accepted yesterday.”
“Yes, but I haven't written anything today!”


Now my husband is a very patient man. He has a variety of tricks for handling my roller coaster response to success and failure.

When I complain because I got rejected for example:
"Well, I guess it wasn't what they were looking for, maybe it needed more work."


"What? It was wonderful! I proofed it. I vetted it. It got good responses. That's it, I'm submitting it again and they'll be sorry."


Other times, he uses reverse psychology.

"You're right, you'll never write something that funny again."
"How do you know?"
"You just said so."
"No. I won't write like that again. I'll write something even better. You'll see."


When he's busy and I pull this stunt, he has an emergency escape button. "I'll bring home two Chocolate! Chocolate! truffles. (It's a store on the base floor of his office building)." This mollifies me instantaneously.
“Thanks sweetie, I’ll call you later. Sorry to bother you.”


Finally, he has a trump card. "Why don't you let me read it?"

Nothing makes me edit better or faster than knowing He's going to read my stuff. It’s like my writing is getting ready for a date with his brain. I have to primp before I can show it.


Except I've never done stand up.


I tried telling him the routine over the phone. This was a bad idea.
After five minutes of talking and hearing the sound of fingers clicking away at the computer sound an awful lot like crickets chirping, I told him, I'd call back later.


In his defense, he Was working.


So I hijacked my kids for an instant audience.
Little did I know, I'd just signed on the three judges of American Idol.


Would be Simon: "I'm very surprised, I almost laughed." I think it's revenge for my critique of his English paper last week.

Paula Wantabe: "It was wonderful. What are you going to wear?" She began bringing me sparkly things.

Randy and the Dawg Pound: Started making up their own material, ignored me completely.



But I'm not discouraged. At 41, there are precious few things one gets the opportunity to do that are "cool" that do not involve:


1) an outlay of serious cash to cover medical expenses,
2) breaking the law,
3) engaging in self denial.


April 5th in Dayton, Ohio. Mark your calendars. I may need a few more Chocolates for this one.
for possibly less neurotic doses of humor than this one, try http://www.humor-blogs.com/!