When I first pulled out my laptop and started plugging away at a novel, I didn't know the first thing about getting a book published.


Wait? You're telling me word counts MATTER? Are you saying there won't be a frenzied bidding war over my 310K novel? 
But it's so good! All my sisters and friends and my UPS guy say so. 
Once I got a clue about the current market instead of the market of say, 1845, my google searches on writing started to surpass my other Googling passions: Bono and Web M.D or as I like to refer to it: Yes-You-Are-Going-To- Die-From-That-Seemingly-Harmless-Symptom-Dot-Com. 
And as I did my research on becoming a too-legit-to-quit writer, over and over again, there was one suggestion that kept popping out at me. 
If you're serious about writing, get thee to a writers' conference. 
And I thought to myself, "I could never do that."
Because, you see, I'm shy. 
Yes. I know you're sputtering and laughing in disbelief right now. 
But really, I am. 
I might get naked on the beach, even though I really didn't want to get naked on the beach.  
I might be known for stealing a tampon or 50. 
I might happen to go to U2 concerts with hot strangers I just met in a honky-tonk, hours before. 
And I might like to dance on bars and get Josh Duhamel to autograph my body.   
But . . . 
To attend a conference? To walk into a convention center filled with hundreds of total strangers? To EAT with those total strangers?
No. 
Way too far out of my comfort zone. 
But writing conferences were supposed to be a great way to hone your craft, glean sparkly jewels of writer wisdom from bestselling authors, network with other writers and the big one, pitch your novel to literary agents. 
And I'm not talking your best curveball. 
Pitches fall into two general categories. 
There's the elevator pitch, which is essentially a snappy, concise, (about 30 seconds) summation of your novel, something you could rattle off to an agent or anyone else who asks, "So, what's your book about?"
It's aptly named the elevator pitch because if you have the chance to pitch an agent on an elevator, you should go for it. 
Actually, if you have a chance to pitch to an agent at any time or place during a conference, you are encouraged to jump all over it. 
Except for the bathroom. 
Aspiring authors are told over and over again to never pitch an agent while they're taking care of their potty business. 
And I'm thinking: Really? Does that even need to be said out loud? It reminds me of the warning label on my stroller, back in my daughters' baby days, that read: ATTENTION: REMOVE INFANT BEFORE FOLDING UP STROLLER. 
Every time I used to pull one of my babies out of that stroller, I'd glance at that essential caution and have a little chuckle. And no, I never forgot to take the baby out before folding up the stroller. 
There was the time my husband forgot to take the baby out of the stroller when he parked in stroller parking at Disney and we all strolled into Country Bear Jamboree. But that's a story for another day. That baby is 17 now. And she's still not sitting in stroller parking at Country Bear Jamboree, just in case you were worried. We remembered her, thankfully. 
But I was talking about stating the obvious. 
Honestly, if you have to be told NOT to slide your pages under a bathroom stall, well then, maybe you shouldn't be at a writers' conference or, really, even in public, for that matter. 
But besides the bathroom, you can pretty much pitch an agent an elevator pitch any time you can trap one of them in a corner. 
Poor agents. 
Then there's the longer pitch, which is about 2-3 minutes, in my case. 
The longer pitch is for an actual pitch session where you have the opportunity to sit down, one on one, with an agent and try your hot-doggiest to convince said agent to take a look at your book. 
I remember the first time I read about pitches, I said out loud to my ever-present pack of horse-dogs, "There is no way I am EVER doing that."
I said the same thing about camping. Unfortunately, I've since camped twice in my life. Gross. 
And I vowed I would never color my hair, but now? I've discovered there is magic in platinum blonde. 
I also said I'd never eat sushi, drive a minivan, ride a mule up to the top of a scary-ass mountain, climb on top of a hissing camel, own a cat, wear sensible shoes, like any song by Rihanna, drink coffee, tell off a priest, (Sorry about that one, God), or wear baby blue eyeshadow. 
I also uttered those same words in the fourth grade when my best friend told me how babies were made. 
I probably should stop saying that. 
Two weeks ago, I attended the DFW Writers' Conference in Hurst, Texas. 




I have never been more elated in my life to walk the freak away from my comfort zone. 
From the moment I got there, it was just one fantastical writer's ride. 
I checked into my hotel right behind the keynote speaker and bestselling author James Rollins. 
James already had a booming career as a veterinarian, when he decided to start writing. He chalked up rejection after rejection, his no's climbing up into the 50's, with one heartless agent even sending him back a kick-in-the-gut note that said, "This is unpublishable." And yet, he kept writing until the day came when not one but two agents wanted to represent him. His story was inspirational—his message loud and clear—keep your head up and keep the words coming. And just as impressive as his writing story, is the fact that he can spay a cat in under 30 seconds. 
For the record, he did not demonstrate spaying a cat for me at check-in. He filled us in on that neat fact during his keynote speech. 




Directly after checking in, I headed to the elevator where a lovely woman waiting for the elevator asked me if I was there for the conference. She held out her hand and introduced herself. 
As an agent. As in an agent I was planning on pitching to that weekend.  
I immediately started speaking my second language, the language of Gibberish, as I introduced myself. I paired this with my trademark nervous flailing hand motions. And...
I think I might have spit on her a little bit. 
Odds are, I did, in fact, spit on her. I have an alarming amount of saliva according to my dentist. 
And also according to my children, who are embarrassed on a regular basis when I drool without warning. And not only do I drool, I always say, "Did you see that? I just drooled." Because, hey, no reason to ignore the obvious. 
By the time the elevator came I was surrounded by agents who all got on the elevator. With me. 
Hello, Elevator Pitch. 
Here I was standing on that elevator, sucking in saliva, surrounded by agents and I couldn't even remember my name, much less what my novel was about. 
In hindsight, I should have slapped the stop button and said, "Okay folks, let's do this. Right here. Right now. Listen up. And please disregard any streams flowing from my mouth as I speak. Hopefully you all know Gibberish?"
But I didn't. 
Thank Heaven. I probably would have been the talk of the agents that weekend. And not in a good way. 
The slobbering girl on the elevator who spastically mimed her pitch. 
And even though I missed a fantastic opportunity to mass pitch, from that moment on, the entire weekend was an intoxicating experience. 
I spent the weekend making fast friends out of fellow writers who understand, who really get it. Who spend most of their time in their own daze of a writer world, just like me, hammering out plots, characters, scenes in their head. Most likely while in their jammies, too. 
I was so enlightened, thrilled, motivated and plain out of my mind happy to be there. I walked into Texas all by my lonesome and I left there with an instant tribe. Every time I sat down or lingered for a half a second, whether it was in the main lobby of the conference center, over the giant array of cookies, in a class and yes, even at a meal, there was someone new next to me, extending a hand, flashing a smile. Love and acceptance everywhere and people so eager and willing to boost each other up. 
I could hear Michael Jackson with a chorus of angels above me, singing, "You are not alone . . . " Really, I could. 

One of my new fast friends and fellow Chicago Girl, the phenomenal Ms Birdy Jones. 


My new tribe and I practiced our pitches on each other. We shared our query journey highs and lows. We celebrated each other's pitch victories. And bolstered each other up when a pitch got a "not for me." 
I even rubbed a very nervous writer's shoulders, like a prize-fighter coach, getting her ready for the big one-two. 
And one of the best things of all, I got to spend a good part of that weekend, with my oh-so-fabulous, writing friend and partner, Ash. 
It was a true privilege to experience this extraordinary weekend with such a fine friend. 
We broke bread together. Slept together. (Calm down boys, in separate beds.) Talked until our eyelids were forcing themselves shut in fatigue. Flitted about the cocktail party.  
Took pictures in the bathroom.




Where we might have staged a silly photo shot in honor of the Slide-The-Manuscript-Under-The-Door Move. 




And took classes together. 
The classes. Oh. My. Goodness. 
I had so many light bulb moments. 
Jodi Thomas in her Writing Deeper class taught us to stop calling our character, characters. We need to refer to them as our people. And as any writer will tell you, those characters we've plucked out of thin air are, exactly that, our people. They live their lives inside our heads, 24/7, even infiltrating our dreams. That is, if we're lucky. 
Jody taught us that in order to keep a reader's attention, we needed to be there in the moment really feeling our story, before we can expect others to feel that same way. She told us to describe what's not there. Oh, how I loved that little nugget. She told us to describe what summertime tastes like. And to walk the land of our story. Walk in the shoes of our people. Oh, just repeating her fine, fine words gives me goose bumps and makes me aspire to be a better writer. 
During Candace Haven's Fast Draft class, I think my mouth just hung open the whole time as I furiously wrote trying to keep up with Candace and her game-changing style of writing. Her lessons have reshaped the way I write. 
For me, her methods keep the creative juices fired up, instead of what I had been doing, stifling my juice.  
She believes in writing your first draft, fast and furious, without looking back, without changing a word, so that you don't get caught in the Bermuda Triangle of Writing—going back and back and back again rewriting the same chapters. This is my biggest sin. My perfectionism pulls me back into those deadly waters every time. But by allowing yourself to make mistakes and to just write—that big, bad voice that resides in every writer, (Candace calls it your internal editor), the one constantly telling you your words aren't good enough, doesn't have time to keep up. 
Candace preaches a mighty talk, a belief that writing should be not something you do when all other obligations in your life are fulfilled, but a course of action that takes precedence over everything else, temporarily, while you hammer out a fast draft. 
She believes in a style of take-no-prisoners writing. Write and write hard. The harder you write, the more you fatigue your senses, the more your subconscious takes over, allowing that internal editor to fade away, bringing out a raw voice, the voice that all writers crave. 
Candace says to believe in the magic. And I do believe. Oh, how I believe. 
In fact, as she empowered me with her voodoo writing powers, I recalled writing one of the most pivotal scenes in my book. It's a good scene. In fact, a great scene. 
And it came to me on a day when I'd been writing for hours. My family was all home from their various school and work days, the household was alive with frenetic activity. But I couldn't stop. The words were pouring out of me and I needed to capture them. My hubs talking his booming talk on his cell phone, the girls, loud and bubbly making food messes in the kitchen, the TV blaring and my dogs barking furiously at the ever-present squirrels outside, were all big distractions. I couldn't find the quiet, until I went into my tiny water closet, turned on the fan, put the toilet seat lid down, sat cross-legged on the toilet and let that scene unfold. 
I was depleted from a big day of writing, annoyed by all the chaos around me and not that comfortable, sitting yoga style on a toilet. But the words that came to me on that day, on that toilet, are some of my best. Ever.
I wouldn't have even realized that until Candace showed me the way. 
Every single class I took from Inside Publishing, taught by the extraordinary and knowledgeable Jill Marsal, super- agent, to James Robbins' rock-star classes, where he shut the door and gave us some kick-ass advice for our little aspiring authors's ears only and every other lesson sandwiched in between was utterly fabulous.  
I walked around that two day event, feeling like every atom in my writerly soul was just humming in euphoria. 
And that was before I pitched. 
Writing my two different pitch versions was a mite agonizing and it took me about a week. 
When I finally got them down pat, I practiced them constantly for the next three weeks. My family started fleeing the room anytime I walked in, knowing that I would try to corral them for another pitch practice.
By the time my first pitch appointment came, strangely, I wasn't that nervous. My war cry had gone from, "I could never do that." To "Hell yeah, I am DOING this."
I signed up for several pitches. In fact, I got so addicted to pitching, I would have signed up for more, but I ran out of time.  
I'm not going to talk about the outcome of those pitches because I don't want to jinx any good writer juju I might have going on. 
But I'll tell you this: I decided I would reward myself with the conference center's crackalicious giant cookies every time I got a request for pages. 
I had myself some cookies. In fact, I ate a cookie every time I finished a pitching session. 
My ass is not thanking me. 
But my little writer's heart is. 
I even got to pitch to the agent I spit on. I introduced myself and she said she remembered me, as she discreetly wiped imaginary things off her face. 
I'm happy to say, I ate a cookie after talking to her. And more importantly, I didn't spit on her. Or on any other agent, for that matter. 
Now that, Internet, is what I call a smashing success. 
Even if I get a solid wall of rejections from these agents, attending the DFW Writers Conference was one of the most exhilarating things I've ever done for myself as a writer. It was like eating cake without ever gaining a pound, dancing onstage with Bono, (as God is my witness, I will make it happen one day), and having a lifetime of fabulous hair days all rolled into one. 
And I'm going back next year. Anyone care to join me? DFW Writers' Conference—here's the link. There's a Super Early Bird Special that's going on, I think, until tomorrow. Only $225.00, a deal. Because the knowledge, the empowerment, the agent connections, but most importantly, the tribe you'll walk away with—that, my friends, you can't buy for any price. 
Today's Definite Download: "Human" by the Killers, for all my DFW tribe and my writer friends everywhere. 
And sometimes I get nervous When I see an open door Close your eyes, clear your heart Cut the cord. 
Write on, All Of You. 

Well . . .  another year, another dead Kennedy.

If I ever catch myself anywhere close to a ten mile radius of one of these cursed folks, I am running for the hills. Well, maybe not the hills. They seem to have a lot of trouble with those.

It's bad enough I reside in the same country. Every time I travel, I'm always like, "Hold up. Are there any Kennedy's on the slopes this week?"

Even craggy Maria Shriver makes me nervous. So far she seems to have escaped the Kennedy curse. Her only bad luck has been in marrying a bodybuilder/movie star/governor who's strangely attracted to ugly maids. But still. I'm not taking any chances.

And if I'm ever on a plane and a Kennedy boards, I am shrieking off that plane.

Their bad juju becomes your problem when you're trapped 30,000 feet in the air with them. Just ask Caroline Bessette Kennedy and her sister.

That poor sister. What did she ever do?

I mean, Caroline, I'm sure, was like, "Hey, Hey, y'all! I snagged America's handsome prince. Take that Daryl Hannah."

So I understand her being a little blinded to the fact that she was getting into a wee baby airplane. At night. A hazy night. With a husband who hadn't "technically" mastered night flying. A husband who was still on crutches, recovering from a broken ankle. A husband who didn't bother with a silly old flight plan. Or instruments.

I can understand her ignoring all those annoying details so they could get to the Kennedy compound, chop-chop, for one of their 456,000 cousins' wedding. Because, I can guarantee a Kennedy wedding is one rip-roaring good time.

They're Irish Catholic. Rip-roaring times are in their blood. I know of what I speak.

But even with all those glaring warning signs, the fact alone that your husband is a Kennedy should make any logical person put the kibosh on getting into a single engine airplane with him. No matter how hot he is.

And forget about one of those big-jawed Kennedy's driving past in a convertible. I wouldn't be waving. I'd be on the ground, hands over my head, screaming, "CHECK THE DEPOSITORY!"

Which by the way? I have never used the word, depository, in my life. And I used to be a banker.

It seems like a very formal word.

Sort of like vehicle. My sister's boyfriend is in law enforcement and he is the only person I know who refers to a car as a vehicle. It's kind of rubbing off on me.

So now I'm all, "I'll be in my vehicle cleaning out my purse for the next 5 minutes. If you kids are not in my vehicle by the time I crumple up the 78 old grocery receipts in the bottom of said purse, your asses will be washing said vehicle for the rest of your lifetime."

Anyway.

Since we're on the subject of American royalty, I was in Utah a few weeks ago. Salt Lake City, to be exact.

And I did not spot a single Osmond anywhere.

I figured I'd at least see Jimmy at The Cheesecake Factory in Salt Lake City's brand new fancy mall, the one with the retractable roof, but no.

They were probably all too busy flossing their teeth.

I did get to see someone much more amazing than any old Osmond, though.

The parents of all the state qualifiers from our high school were required to go because we don't have a DECA sponsor. You see, our sponsor got arrested.

This morning, as soon as my eyes fluttered open, I thought: What. The. Hell. 
This is not my usual first thought in waking. Most of the time, it's: Crap! I fell asleep with my makeup on during Andy Cohen and missed the Jackhole of the Day, AGAIN! Large pores, here I come. 
And I did fall asleep during Andy's let's-pretend-we're-sneaking-beer-and-hanging-out-in-my-parents'-basement fabulous late night talk show, but this morning, bigger things took precedence. 
As in my lip. 
My fat lip. 
I felt like I'd been in a bar fight and some roller derby queen had punched me in the mouth. 
But as far as I know, I wasn't in any pubs last night quaffing down boilermakers with roller derby queens. 
I don't take Ambien, so I'm pretty positive on this. 
My lip was just slightly swollen, but it tingled and felt a little bruised, so of course I knew I was dying. 
I wandered around the house all morning muttering, "This is so weird. Why does my lip feel like Lisa Rinna's?"
And when I say muttering, I mean I followed my family around, obsessing to anyone who would listen. 
Oh, who am I kidding! No one listens to me in this house. Except for the dogs. It's why I love them best. 
I googled tingling mouth, which is not something you want to google before you've had your coffee. Trust me on this.  
And I welled up a little when I realized I had either Hypocalcemia, Hypoparathyroidism, Guillain-Barre syndrome, oral cancer, Elephantitis or The Jumping Frenchman disorder. 
Or, in fact, all of them. Probably all of them. 
By the time I realized God had appointed me the modern day Job, my husband was the only one left in the house to ignore my hypochondriac hysteria. And that's when it hit me. 
Dear God. It was a brown recluse spider. 
See, the brown recluse is as common here as the Great White Shark is to Australia. And they're both serious hit men, like Luca Brasi sticking a horse head in your bed, serious. 
We have had our fair share of brown recluse bites in our family involving trips to the ER, skin grafts and a dog that almost died. So, clearly these murderers know where we live. And guess where brown recluses are most likely to attack? That's right. In your bed. While you're sleeping. 
Just like Luca Brasi. 
So, I was all, "FORGET WORK, HUSBAND! YOU NEED TO TAKE ME TO THE E.R. BEFORE THE VENOM REACHES MY HEART. But hang on, let me go blow dry my hair first."
And as I went racing off to my hair products, my hubs said, "Or you know, maybe the tv remote might have hit you. You know. In the face. Or something, I don't know, something like that."
And I was like, "Um, what?"
And he shrugged sheepishly, like he does when I sit in a wet spot on the toilet seat lid and I scream, (in a loving way) asking him if he, perchance, forgot to lift the lid. 
He said, "You know the remote is always in the bed because you never put it on the nightstand, so maybe it hit you."
And I was like, "Well duh, that's because I was watching Andy Cohen. And what? Were you trying to teach me a lesson? 'She never puts the remote on the nightstand, so I'm gonna bash her in the face with it. That'll show her.' Is that it, Chris Brown?" 
And he said, "No. I felt something under me when I was trying to sleep. I pulled it out, saw it was the remote and I just kind of tossed it over my shoulder and that's when it may or may not have hit you."
And I said, pursing my Lisa Rinna lips, "And just how do you know this?"
He'd been reading the paper when he confessed to battering me and he hid behind it then, as he said, "You might have sat up in bed and yelled, 'What the &@# hell? You just *!# hit me in my #@! mouth with the mother *&#, $#*  remote, you mother#@#*!' But then you just lay back down, so I figured you were talking in your sleep again."
Or more like cussing a river in my sleep. 
My husband gave me a fat lip. I will never let him live this one down. 
And one more thing. 
Sighhhh. 
An update for all of you on my querying. As you've probably noticed, I haven't been around much lately. It's because I've been writing and revising and reviewing and revising and pretty much riding this crazy roller coaster of trying to make a dream come true. 
On my first query go-round, I sent out four queries. This isn't a lot by query standards, but I'm the type who dips my toes in first and then slowwwwly eases into the pool. I'm not a cannonball jumper, by any means. That type of rambunctious nonsense totally trashes a good hair day. 
I sent these four queries to my dream agents, the cool girls, the ones who I would die to be invited to sit at their lunch table. 
Two days later, one of those agents requested my full manuscript. 
See, the way it works is: You query an agent. If they like what they see, they usually ask for a partial manuscript or about three chapters. If they like that, they ask for a full. This agent bypassed that partial and asked me for a full. 
I couldn't believe it. I'd heard the stories, how hard this was supposed to be, how 98% of writers get rejected, how many famous writers toiled forever before anyone sat up and took notice. 
I sent off my manuscript, elated. In the meantime, two of those agents sent me rejections. But no matter, an agent of my dreams had my full manuscript in her hands. 
And then I went to Pebble Beach for a vacation and as I sat at breakfast one morning, I got an email from my number one dream agent, asking me to send her a partial manuscript. 
Oh, I tell you, I was in heaven, aspiring author heaven. 
We toasted with champagne and I emailed all my writer friends to tell them the big news. 
I floated home from that vacation, dreaming about book tours and NY Times lists and Isla Fisher playing my main character, Kel, in the blockbuster movie. 
In the meantime, I got back to work because those two rejections were getting under my skin. Because I always want everyone to love me. And those two rejections told me there was always room for improvement. 
I sent out four more queries while I waited. But this time, the news wasn't so good. I got one rejection and the other three didn't respond. Many agencies will say if you don't hear from them, it's a no. So I figured I got a no, no, no and no on that go-round. 
Still, two agents were reading my words. So I worked and I polished and I revised. 
And I stalked those two agents—reading their blogs, buying their client's books, following them on Twitter. 
It was a Sunday, when I saw a tweet from the agent who had my full, stating she had big news on her blog. 
I raced right over to see what was going down. 
And that's when I found out she was quitting the agency. In fact, she was quitting agenting altogether. For a big job, the job of her dreams. 
I sent her an email, congratulating her and politely asking about my manuscript. She didn't answer. I spent the next few days, crying, eating all of the chocolate chip cookie dough from my daughter's fundraiser and commiserating with all of my darling, darling writer friends. 
Not too shortly after that jolt, the agent of my dreams who had my partial sent me a very kind email, telling me that although my writing was lovely, she didn't think my novel was right for her. 
I started on the Keebler Elfwiches. 
A few days later I got an email from the agency of the agent who had quit, telling me they were still considering my manuscript. 
And I was all, "Yay! Yay!"
And then yesterday, the newest agent at that agency sent me an email, saying that although she was drawn in by my premise and my entertaining and well drawn cast of characters, she wasn't as pulled in as she would have liked to be. 
And so . . . 
I begin again. And again. And again. If that's what it takes. 
Yesterday, it was Costco's chocolate fudge cake that helped me through. And as always, as always, as always, my so patient, talented and kind critique partner, A.B. Keuser. 
I was sad yesterday. But I'm back to fighting mode today. 
I am polishing and tightening and revising. And next week, a whole handful of new agents will have me knocking on their query door. 
And a little over a month from now, I will be attending my first writer's conference. I am excited and shaking in my boots. I've signed up to pitch an agent my novel, which essentially means I have ten minutes of one-on-one time with an agent where I have to try and sell her my work and not babble inanely like I usually do. So, on top of revising and eating cake, I now have to craft a pitch that will knock this agent out of her chair. Figuratively, that is. I hope I don't literally knock her out of the chair. Who knows, I get extra klutzy when I'm nervous. 
But the best thing about this writer's conference is my lovely, oh so awesome, writer friend, Ash of Shades of Blue and Green is coming with me. We'll hold hands and brave our first writer's conference together and because of that, I know it will all go as smoothly as peaches and cream. 
And so, please forgive me if I'm not around. But this writing gig? It's everything to me. I'll blog here in my usual sporadic way, but know that I'm always thinking of all of you lovely people I consider my friends. Your love and kind comments and support have bolstered me indubitably through this writing journey. 
Today's Definite Download: No download today. A very special link instead. When I got the news yesterday, after I emailed A.B., cried and ate cake, I googled rejections. And that's when I stumbled upon Kathryn Stockett's story. Kathryn Stockett is the author of The Help, the novel that spent over 100 weeks on the NY Times Bestseller List and was made into an Oscar nominated blockbuster movie. 
Kathryn Stockett wrote about her journey to publishing, her obsession with her manuscript, her constant writing, foregoing everything else in her life to get it right and her 60, that's right, 60 rejections before she got a yes. 
Her words spoke to my bruised writer's heart yesterday and it was the perfect balm. Her amazing tale, only a few paragraphs long, is right here. 
I will leave you with these words from her: "The point is, I can't tell you how to succeed. But I can tell you how not to: Give in to the shame of being rejected and put your manuscript—or painting, song, dance moves, (insert passion here)—in the coffin that is your bedside drawer and close it for good. I guarantee you that it won't take you anywhere. Or you could do what this writer did: Give in to your obsession, instead."
I'll see you soon. A manuscript is calling to me. 

My friend Meg sent me an email last night asking if I had any hotel or dining suggestions for her upcoming trip to Paris. 

Here's my biggest travel tip for anyone out there: Do not ask me for travel suggestions unless you enjoy novel length emails filled with every bit of minutia I can come up with. I love passing on travel tips. In fact, I'm some kind of Sheriff of Travel or something, over at Trip Advisor because I write so many reviews.

And by the way, Meg, I forgot to tell you this little tidbit. The French gas stations? They're like gourmet delis. Not a single insect-infested fruit pie to be found. It's all beautiful cheeses, fresh fruits, amazing meats and these big, beautiful bakeries. It'll probably be the only time in my life I will say, "Why don't we eat at the gas station?"

After I wrote Meg a 359,000 word email, I got inspired by all the Frenchy-ness and I decided to run an updated rerun about my dining experiences in France. Don't worry. It will be new to you, Internet, because this post is from the days when I had two followers, one of them being my sister. Enjoy!

I try to be a straight A representative for our homeland when I travel. I'm always up on the customs and the very basics of the language wherever I go. It has always worked in my favor. 
Until I got to France. 
My darling friend, Lady Jennie, an American living in France with her sexy French husband and bustling household of children, reassures me it is the way of French people, that, in general, they don't even like each other. 
But I don't care. I have this puppy-like insatiable need to be loved. By everyone. Dead Kim Jong could walk in the room and I would do my best to coax a laugh and a nod of approval out of him.  
I'd been warned. I knew to expect French cold shoulders. But I also know how universally effective a shy smile and some stuttering stabs at a foreign language can be when trying to find a bathroom. 
Rudimentary French got me nowhere, but one big collective, derisive snort and looks of contempt. I constantly tried to prove myself, yet no one would find me worthy. France was that mean, cliquey girl, the one so smug in her beauty, no one else can measure up. 
And I knew why the French found us so contemptible. I'd gathered up all the reasons and I was determined to prove them wrong. 
I knew how much they despised our fashion sense. Hell, I despise our fashion sense. It hurts my eyes to look around me on most days. When did we become a nation of tennis shoes paired with t-shirts proclaiming, I Don't Get Drunk. I Get Awesome! 
The French couldn't hate me for my outward appearance, because honestly, I dress French. I do. All the time. For instance, high heels are a staple of my life, as essential as my underwear. Seriously. Field trips to Grandma's Huggin' Farm, soccer games, Walmart, where I am eyed suspiciously as an outsider infringing on their People of Walmart cult—I am always in my heels. 
So, fashion was an effortless hurdle. 
The French also have a great distaste for the amplified volume of Americans. 
This was a bit of a problem. 
You see, I married an amplified American. Restaurants were the toughest, as quiet as a church service with the French conversing in their papery, whispered tones. Every time I attempted the quiet-talk, my Hubs would shout from across the table, "WHAT? I CAN'T UNDERSTAND YOU WHEN YOU WHISPER."
And then, of course, there was the time we almost burned down the French restaurant. 
It was our first night in a small village outside of Normandy. We were dining at a Michelin rated restaurant in a restored home that was centuries old. They had guided us into a parlor for an aperitif, a formal must before the celebration the French call dinner. 
I'd only had a sip of my Kir Royale when I noticed the smoke curling up from behind my hub's shoulder. I pointed with my drink and offered up casually, (I was tired), "Something's on fire behind you."
He turned to find his faux leather jacket up in flames. 
He'd tossed it on the table behind him. He neglected to see the lit candle in the middle of the table. 
He picked up that burning hide of pleather and slapped and stomped and slapped some more and whipped that flaming pleather around his head like a fire dancer. This went on until the entire restaurant was filled with smoke and the smell of burnt—I don't know—the best I can come up with is, dehydrated cow manure. 
I placed the charred, still-smoking jacket outside of a window, the whole time muttering, "Désolé, Désolé" as the staff and other diners coughed and gagged their way through the evening, sending smarmy looks our way. 
It didn't help our case. 
I felt like I apologized my way through that beautiful country. And call me a stupid American, call me a global moron, but there is much to be said for the people of our land, always willing to extend a hand to anyone who needs to find a bathroom or the correct route on the subway. 
Here in the States, that jacket would have been pounced upon by some, others would have grabbed the extinguisher and we would have all sat back and had a hearty, boisterous laugh, shouting to each other from our tables—a burning, pleather jacket making us all fast friends. 
We have beauty in our own land. We just count it in other ways. 
I so wanted to be loved by that cliquey, pretty girl. But France did not love me, no matter how hard I tried. 
Here's the true story to cement my case. 
It was Bordeaux, our last night in France and we'd stumbled upon a nook of a restaurant where all the locals ate. 
Now, here's where I tell you, I am the rock star of exotic dining. If there's something crazy on the menu, I'm ordering it. 
I've had fried bone marrow. From an ox. And it was DELICIOUS. In true southern girl fashion, I always suck the heads of the crawfish. And I've eaten head cheese with my chef friend, Dave LeFevre. 
Oh, which by the way, Dave is a semi-finalist this year, for the prestigious James Beard award for best chef AND best new restaurant for his LA restaurant, Manhattan Beach Post. If you're ever in LA, go see Dave, tell him Joann Cleveland-Mannix sent you. You will not be disappointed. Congratulations, Baby D and good luck!
Anyway, I thought I was an untamed eater until I got to France. You see, the French adore their organ meats. And because I am a Web MD groupie and a well-read hypochondriac, I know some of the horrific diseases that can come from eating organ meats. And if I started eating organ meats, I would have to add even more diseases to my laundry list of illnesses that I'm sure are taking up space in my body. Every time I drool, (which is daily if not hourly) I would be certain it was the Mad Cow from the plate of calves' brains on a bed of arugula I'd eaten in France. 
I don't do organ meats. 
It would take me forever with my little culinary dictionary to translate the menu every night. But that little book became the most valuable item of our trip. 
By the last night, I was so tired of taking 30 minutes to distinguish the foie gras from the braised tripe, I was completely relieved when our waiter told us he could translate the menu for us. 
Our waiter was the owner's son and the owner, a lovely chic woman, was intrigued that Americans had come to her off-the-beaten-path restaurant. 
Her son translated the menu, describing a veal that my husband was all over and a sushi plate with a cup of green tea that sounded perfect to me. 
Usually I'm a veal girl myself, (sorry all you calf lovers, but I do find veal lip-smacking delicious), but I wanted something light and I couldn't resist our waiter's scrumptious description of the sushi. 
Remember that word. Light. As in, not heavy.  
We ordered and the culinary debauchery began. 
The French are known for their many sophisticated courses and the way they linger over the table for hours. In our two weeks there, I'd gotten used to the continuous parade of courses. But this? This was eleven courses. ELEVEN courses. And with each one, the lovely little owner would come over and say, "Americans usually do not like real gourmet. I do not serve the hamburger here. If you like my food, you must eat all of it."
And I so wanted her to like me and more importantly, to prove her wrong, to show her a real American has class and can talk quietly, wear heels and has a refined palate. We don't all eat at McDonald's. 
Well, there was that one time. 
But the whole friggin' country shuts down between noon and two and we were hungry and did you know in France, fries are seven bucks? And they're not even good. All limp and unsalted. 
The French woman's food was fantastic, so it wasn't that much of an effort to keep forking it in. She would venture over and comment, smiling approvingly with each empty plate. I was happy to be pleasing her. 
And then . . . the main course arrived. 
My husband's veal looked delicious. 
The waiter set an empty bowl before me. From a platter on his tray, he extracted with silver tongs, a gelatinous, flabby slab of raw fish. Placing it ceremoniously into my bowl, he announced, "I will now pour the green tea over the fish. The steaming liquid will cook it and in the process, create a green tea-fish soup."
Definitely a lost in translation moment. 
I tried so hard. But that soup tasted like a heaping endless bowl of fish perfume. It was awful. 
As I worked at keeping the soup down, gulping water with each spoonful of green tea and still-raw gobs of fish, I whined to my husband (quietly), "I feel like I'm on Fear Factor."
He could only nod as he stuffed every delectable forkful of that veal in his mouth and wiped his plate clean with his delicious crusty bread. 
The owner came over and rubbed my hub's back, exclaiming over his clean plate. 
Looking over at me, she clucked and sternly told me to keep eating. 
Which I did, feeling like any minute the nine courses before this one were about to come up all over her pristine linen tablecloth which would most certainly cause her to dislike me even more. 
And since I am just like a golden retriever puppy and quite tenacious to boot, I finished every slimy, perfumed drop of that soup. 
She gave me the nod of approval as she hand-delivered the pre-dessert course. 
That's right. The dessert before the dessert. 
I was sweating by the time the real dessert got there, a multi-layered huge slab of cream cake AND a chocolate mousse. 
I couldn't do it. It was no longer physically possible. The cake sat there, uneaten. My guilt on a delicate china plate. 
And as I pushed away from the table feeling like the Discovery Channel's 1,000 pound man, the lovely owner came over to me and sneered, "I knew it. You did not like my food. Typical American."
If I wasn't about to vomit in my mouth, I would have tossed the quiet-talking aside and said what any American would say who had tried her damnedest to speak the language even as she was mocked openly, eat the pigeon and the foie gras with a smile on her face and act politely even when she was treated with constant incivility. I would have given her an American pledge, refined over time, but still the same code we have lived by throughout our nation's proud history—"Really? You want to mess with me? Then, BRING IT, French Sister!" 
I do not hate France, quite the contrary. I just hate the mean girl she can be, beautiful to the eye, but ready with the preconceived judgments, passing out her intolerance in heaping French fistfuls. 
But I will end my story with a redemption. 
As we set out for our car several blocks away, the freezing rain poured down upon us, soaking through the cheap, broken umbrella our chateau had lent us. A perfect ending to my miserable night. 
I whimpered, "I think I'm going to throw up," as I held my stomach, angry and frustrated over my stupid attempt to be loved.  
As we huddled under our umbrella, scurrying through the rain, a shout stopped us in our tracks. Our waiter caught up with us, soaked from the pelting rain. He handed us an enormous, obviously expensive umbrella and said, "From my mother. She said you should take care in this rain."
He took our cheap umbrella and tossed it in the trash before jogging back in the cold, wet rain. 
I do love France. It seems mean girls can be quite capable of kindness. You just have to look in the right places. 
Today's Definite Download: This song is the newest love of my life. "Some Nights" from the band, Fun. I've been listening to Fun for awhile, since before Glee made them popular. "Some Nights" is from their brand new album. Do yourself a favor and take a listen to this song, here, right here. I guarantee it will have you flailing about your living room. In a good way.  
"Some Nights" has gotten me through this week, much more than a gorging of Elfwich cookies ever could. I'm not going to go into any details yet, but let's just say Tom Petty got it right, when he said the waiting is the hardest part. Putting your writer's fate in the hands of others is excruciating. I vacillate from huge writerly angst and despair to hopeful joy. And that would be every second of the day. Oh yes, I'm super fun to be around these days. 
I've just started down this road and I really don't know how writers, since time began, have spent their lives and every bit of their heart pursuing this dream. It's that soul sucking hard. 
But actually, I do know. Writing enslaves me. There is nothing better than capturing words and thoughts and making a story from your writer's heart.  And so I despair and dream and flail about and write. And nothing could be finer. 
Now go on with your bad self. Go flail.