Rosemary Becomes a Real Woman

Especially for my Sicilian.

Sixty-six years ago, Rosemary,(pronounced Rose-ah-Mary) a good catholic, Sicilian girl was still childless. Despite being married for some time, she was not “a real woman.” To prove she was a real woman, per her Sicilian family, she needed a child. Fruit of her womb. A child, male or female.

NOLA city busIn the winter of 1952, per family lore, she was hit by a New Orleans City bus and drug down the street.  (Their words,not mine.) A few months later, Rosemary was in the family way. “Shook something loose,” said her family.

What she shook loose was born in September of that year, my Sicilian. And several years later, without the bus incident, she produced another son.

Today is the Sicilian’s natal day. Hard to buy him a gift when he has everything . . . me, Spot the Wonder Dog, and his own room for watching TV. But, I succeeded in giving him a surprise, a small fridge for his room which I filled with adult beverages. This morning Spot presented him with a snack basket full of the Sicilian’s favorite treats,(jerky, Junior Mints, Whoppers, M&Ms, red ballpopcorn and Lay’s Dressed Chips). Nestled among the food items was a new red, rubber ball.

Spot subscribes to the motto . . .  “Give unto others what you would like to receive.” I’m sure in her little brain she thinks, “He’s always throwing things for me to catch, so I should give him a new ball.”

The ball was a great hit. Spot immediately engage the Sicilian in her favorite sport, fetch. In the house no less which gives Spot a chance to slide scratches across our hardwood floors and shed another zillion hairs. I swear that dog should be bald with the amount of hair she loses daily.

FrogDespite writing comical incidents about what the Sicilian and I do, he is more than fodder for my blog. He is the best man in the world for me. I know this because I kissed a number of warty frogs before I found my handsome prince. He tolerates my perfectionism with only minor grumbling, and tells me all publishers and agents are idiots when I receive another rejection. So, today, dear Sicilian, I want the world to know I love you. Happy Birthday! And I wish you many many more.

happy birthday


My Real Life

typewriter-crumpled paperIn my other life, (this is assuming I have one)  I try to be a published author. All of you wannabee writers who plan to write the great American novel, be warned, this is NOT an easy path. In fact, that road to hell your church has been preaching about is a 4-lane super highway compared to the road to an agent or publisher.
Of course anyone can be self published, but sales from such a venture are very limited. Just how large a family do you have? How many friends owe you a favor?  If your are related to the Duggars (19 kids and counting), your family is listed in the Guinness book of records as the largest family on earth, or your family is headed by a godfather, you might sell 200 books, but this will not bring you fame, fortune, or a chance to be on Oprah.
Becoming traditionally published gives credibility to your work, but succeeding at this is bike-flatlike riding a bike with a flat tire uphill and against the wind while 8 million wannabee writers pursue you on hungry alligators. Limited alligatorfun to say the least unless you are a masochist.
The poor Sicilian must listen to my moaning about receiving another rejection on a regular basis.  Just to torture myself, I keep a record of every agent and publisher I have contacted about my novel, The Strength of Secrets. Being a Type A person I need to do this to prove to myself I am trying, or perhaps I am that masochist I just mention.
This past week I received yet another email rejection. I retrieved my submission journal preparing to  write “REJECTED” by the agent’s name, but I could find no record that I had ever submitted to this agent.
“I just got an email rejection for my novel from someone I never submitted to,” I said.
“So,” the Sicilian said, “you are now being rejected before you can submit. That’s progress.”
“This just proves everybody hates me and I’ll never be published again,” I moaned.  After a few minutes I opened another email. “Listen to this. My play has made the final cut in the one-act play competition. I’m one of the five finalist!”
“Thank, God. My prayers have been answered,” the Sicilian.
And this from a man who questions God, faith, and miracles.  If  the Sicilian  is now praying for me, God better listen. . thank-god