You know, the expression “Bad Hair Day”  has been around for a while; according to one source, its earliest printed use was in 1988. Literal usage describes a day when, despite your best efforts, your hair is frizzy, flat, or frumpy; figurative usage would be a day where your hair is frizzy, flat, or frumpy and you break a vase over your husband’s head when he helpfully comments on that fact.

I think we all have literal bad hair days from time to time (some of us more often than others: see Susan Boyle, Donald Trump; I myself favor Gene Wilder on occasion), but as a general rule, it’s the figurative ones that cause more problems.

I was just watching a popular morning news program covering Secretary of State Hillary Clinton’s news conference in Kinshasa (if you haven’t heard about it by now, don’t worry–you will), wherein she snapped a shrewish retort to an innocent, albeit poorly translated and ill-conceived, question about “what her husband thought” about China’s growing influence.

“Wait, you want to know what my husband thinks? My husband is not the secretary of state – I am.” You could read her anger from the twentieth row back.

You know, I felt sorry for her at that moment. I am not a Clinton fan, to be honest, but even so, I still admire and respect a woman who has worked so hard to accomplish so much. And I can certainly feel sorry for her that, even in the face of such accomplishments, her knee-jerk, momentarily unguarded reaction to that question reveals her fears that she will never be completely out of her husband’s shadow. Bill’s Rescue-Hero impersonation of last week and the ensuing lovefest, though laudable, cannot have helped assuage those fears in any way, either.

But what really burned me this morning was not Hillary’s loss of composure–I’ve been waiting to see Hillary Clinton tear someone’s head off since Monica Lewinsky first reared her ugly head (see Bad Hair Day parenthetical, graf 2). No–what burned me was NBC correspondent Andrea Mitchell’s offhanded comment that Hillary was “clearly having a ‘Bad Hair Day'”. 

Wait a minute, wait a minute–are we talking literal, or figurative here? If it’s figurative, I’d have to agree, but as far as literal goes, well, let’s go to the video: Um, yes. Mitchell appeared to be correct; the Secretary of State was indeed, having a literal “Bad Hair Day”.

What?! Are you kidding me? You’re following the Secretary of State‘s international tour to some of the more dicey parts of the world, and you’re spending time covering the state of…her hair?!

It’s bad enough that Clinton has to spend so much of her time scrabbling out from under her husband’s lingering shadow, especially this last week, but to then put her unfortunate snappishness down to a possible poor choice of hair product that morning is ridiculous, and what’s more, it helps reinforce that persistent, opportunity-stifling double standard that a woman has to do everything a man does and look good while doing it in order to succeed.

Did anyone ever make a comment about Madeleine Albright having a bad hair day? Did anyone ever care about Madeleine Albright’s hair? No, because she was the Secretary of State, for crying out loud, the U.S. Ambassador to the U.N.!–she had bigger fish to fry than choosing the right hair spray for Bosnia’s current humidity level.

And with that, I was angry–just about as angry as Clinton herself appeared in the video. When are we going to stop talking about powerful, accomplished women’s hair, their pantsuits, their fabulous arms (do you know that you get over 1, 470,000 hits if you do an online search for “Michelle Obama’s arms”?), their choices in designers, and start taking them seriously?

Until we do, I think many women, myself included, are going to be facing an endless future of Bad Hair Days, and I mean figurative ones here, because those are the days when you misbehave, when you snap, when you throw that vase at that unsuspecting moron’s head. If that’s what it takes to get some respect, well–wasn’t it Eleanor Roosevelt who said that “well-behaved women rarely make history”?

You go, Hillary–I may not agree with your politics, but I do support your right to have a Bad Hair Day–of both types. And Andrea Mitchell, stop talking about Hillary’s hair–you’re doing her and the rest of us an injustice.

When I was reading Stephen King’s On Writing, he told would-be writers to read as much as they could, whenever they could, even provided a reading list at the end of the book. I was kind of irritated when I read that particular piece of advice, as my reading time at that point had recently diminished to a level where “reading time” meant the 5 minutes I spent in bed at night fuzzily reading the same sentence over and over without realizing it while simultaneously falling off a cliff into the sleep of the truly comatose. Read? When? With what time or energy?

But lo and behold, I guess I’ve somehow been managing to sneak reading in somewhere, because I just updated my reading list on LinkedIn and found that I have, in fact, read 27 books over the last three months–27! I can’t imagine where I found the time (heck, I couldn’t remember the titles of some of them until I read back through my list, to be honest, let alone figuring out what day it was I read them.) And by the way, you who are speed readers out there and whose children are not at home for summer vacation, I don’t want to know that you polished off 48 books in the same time period, okay? 27 for me was a surprisingly plump number.

I scanned the list, reminiscing over the titles. Wow–The Unforgiving Minute? I read that? Yes, I remember now–that was actually really fascinating. The Ten-Year-Nap (Um, yeah…book club book… I do remember that one, if only vaguely…) A Confederacy of Dunces…I’m going to tuck that one away right next to Armies of the Night, on the shelf of books whose writing I admire tremendously but the reading of which irritated the hell out of me…

All of a sudden, reading that list, I found myself so happy–would that be the right word, happy?–to see it, proof as it were, detailed in something I’d only been doing as more of a lark more than anything (there is currently only 1 person following my list, which is possibly one more than there is following my blog. That puts my reading list squarely in the “Lark” category…)

Anyway, it was proof, as I was saying, that I have been reading, much more than I realized I had; proof that I’d also been thinking about what I read (27 books read, and I only recommended 9; of those, I only commented on 3 or 4); proof that my mind, which I’ve been feeling increasingly was on summer vacation right along with my children, was still hard at work, reading, thinking, evaluating, humming along with its inner workings still operating quite nicely, thank you.

Yes. Happy. I was really happy that LinkedIn has that feature, not because I think anybody but that 1 other person out there will pay the slightest attention to what I’m reading and what I think about it, but rather because it I occurred to me that I can use that list now as a tool to track for me, not for anybody else, what I’m reading and whether I liked it and why/why not. (Yes, I know, I could just write the same stuff in a notebook and accomplish the same thing, but this is so much easier and less time-consuming. And, you can look the books up on the site and put their covers right next to your entry about them–it’s like looking back at old yearbook photos of the people at your high school reunion: You look at their faces and wonder how much they have changed since you last saw them, and realize how much you have changed…but I digress.)

LinkedIn’s book listing is just so much sexier than an old ratty spiral notebook–but then, I am married to my Help Desk, so perhaps I’m biased in favor of technology making things easier. Don’t hassle me too much about that, please–I only replaced most of my ratty spirals with a laptop about three years ago. (Just between you and me, I still carry a small one in my purse, just in case.)

So that’s where I’m at today, Mr. King–I’m reading, I’m reading, I’m reading–Hey! I even read you! (if you don’t believe me, check my LinkedIn page for the proof).

Well, it’s a good thing I basked in the sunlight a few weeks ago, because the progress outlook has been generally dim since my article was accepted. There have been additional rejections to swallow (I’m getting fairly practiced at doing so now), so there hasn’t been very much of an exciting nature to add.

I did have one glimmer of hope pop up on the horizon, when my dream agent actually requested a partial review of my latest manuscript, but sadly, today, she informed me it didn’t draw her in. Ah, me–back to the drawing board.

In an effort to get right back in the saddle (see earlier post), I have been writing like a fiend this morning. I worked up interview questions for an article I’ll be submitting later this summer and submitted a couple of modest essays and my first short story to other possible forums for publication.

That’s the part of this whole business that I think I find so dispiriting: the hoops to jump through to get someone to look at your work are very time-consuming. If I spend the time working on that end of the business, it takes time away from the creative part of it, which is where I really want to be spending my time and energies. But I guess you gotta do what you gotta do.

It’s been hard finding the time (and solitude) to write creatively anyway, as it is, what with the kids home from school for the summer now. I was always a believer in year-round schooling, but my support only increases during the summer months when I realize just how much I’ve enjoyed having the extra time to write.

When I’m with my kids, I feel guilty that I’m not writing and working on something that will help me achieve my goals. When I’m writing, I feel guilty that I’m not spending time with my children–I know, it’s the classic conundrum of the working parent, but since I don’t actually earn a paycheck at my “work”, I think my guilt at burying myself in it from time to time, “optional” as it is, may be heavier than your average guilt load.

I hope that someday, my kids will not look back on these days of summer sun and a closed office door between me and them with enormous amounts of resentment.

How did J.K. Rowling manage it as a mother-writer? Everyone’s heard of how she would write with her baby in a carrier at her feet–that’s fine, for a little while, but what about when they’re mobile, and verbal (very verbal, in the case of my offspring)? What, then?

Oh, well, enough pity partying–if any writer-parents out there want to respond and pass along their sage “How-I-Do-It” advice, I’d be happy to hear it.

In the meantime, write on, write on.

For my friends, A. and K.    

     Let me make one thing perfectly clear: I am not a gardener. Don’t get me wrong, I love flowers and plants. I love curling my fingers into rich, pungent soil, gently unraveling the tiny root systems already encasing even young plants, coaxing those immature tendrils to grow quickly and spread deep. There’s something almost maternal for me in the feel of tucking those fragile plants into their warm, cozy beds of earth. I pat them gently and hope that Earth, Sun, and Rain will do the rest, helping my little green babies to grow tall and strong and beautiful.

     But, as I’ve already mentioned, I am not a true gardener. Worse, I’m a careless gardener. I get distracted from tending my little seedlings, and inevitably, they end up drowning through my overwatering after a dry spell, or baking, crisping, and crumbling under the exuberant heat of the Sun. I sigh my remorse, read again the stick containing the plant care instructions, and vow that next time, I will pay closer attention to the details. Next time, I’ll try a different variety.

     Have you ever planted sunflowers? Those flowers are amazing. In French, they are called tournesol, which means “turns with the sun”. This refers to the sunflower’s habit of literally turning as the sun makes its way across the sky so that the sunflower always faces the light. I find myself thinking from time to time that for an herbicidal maniac like myself, a plant that could at least control its own sun exposure would be a welcome addition to my garden.

     I think if I could be any flower, I’d like to be a sunflower. There are times when I, too, find myself tilting my face up to greet the joyful sun, particularly after the dark days of a long Minnesota winter. I crane my neck as far back as I can and feel the warmth and light fill me with contentment, and for a moment, I, too, am a sunflower. But then I remember some trifling problem, some slight, some chore, and turn my face away from the sun, forgetting to revel in the joy it brings. I am, I fear, more like the common thistle, cantankerous and prickly.

     People can be a lot like plants and flowers; in fact, many of the expressions we use to describe people originate from plants. There are “Fresh as a daisy”; “Cool as a cucumber”; “Lovely as a rose”; and one of my all-time favorites from a bygone era, “She’s a real tomato”—that one always makes me a laugh for no particular reason. But you never really see sunflowers used to describe people. Why is that?

     They have at least as long a lineage as the rose. They are as beautiful as the daisy, and more useful: you can eat sunflower seeds, cook with sunflower oil, brew tea from sunflower stems. The ancient Aztecs, they say, even used to worship the sunflower. Have you ever seen anyone worship a daisy? They are the flibbertigibbets of the flower world.

     I once watched a time-lapse video of a field of sunflowers and it was startling to see the determination, the single-mindedness, if you will, of that field as the sun traveled overhead. There was something mystical in the pas de deux between sun and flower, something I could see, and recognize, but feel I will somehow never understand.

     Don’t sunflowers ever get tired? Don’t they ever get discouraged? Don’t they ever feel bowed down by the winds buffeting them? Is there ever a morning where they wake up and don’t feel like getting out of bed? No, they don’t. The storms come, the winds blow, the drought sears, the rains lash at them through the night. But in the morning, the sun rises, and those amazing flowers lift their heads to greet it; they make what appears to be a conscious decision to turn their faces to the light, every day, no matter how fierce the storm of the night, no matter how heavy their heads feel, no matter how tempting it must be some mornings to just allow themselves to bend down to the fragrant earth and stay there.

     No. There is something deep within, down in its very roots, something that lifts the sunflower’s head each day as the sun comes over the horizon, something that inspires it, something that motivates it, something that makes it choose the light every time. Whatever it is, roses don’t have it, daisies don’t have it, and I can vouch for thistles—they don’t have it either. But what a gift the sunflower gives me, and how I am continually inspired by it, to keep my own head held high, no matter the storm, no matter the winds, no matter the rain. The sunflower calls to me, reminding me to do as it does: to turn my face to the light, to always follow the sun. 

Rejection-letter box of Kleenex: $2.00.

Rejection-letter ice cream, “Death Wish” size, from Cold Stone Creamery: $8.00.

Rejection-letter “Better-Writer-In-A-Box” bookstore spree: $49.96.

A (reputable) magazine finally accepting one of your articles for publication: Priceless!

Yes, folks, it’s finally happened: a real magazine is actually going to publish one of my articles. Because I’m a superstitious person, I will refrain from jinxing the deal by blabbing here which magazine, though I will tell you that it’ll be in print this fall.

I received the e-mail this morning after spending a particularly broody few days feeling like nothing good would ever come of this writing thing (I guess that “Deux Ex Machina” thing must not be just a literary device), so emotionally speaking, the news could not have come at a better time.

In the hours since reading the news, I have been floating around with what I know must be a sublimely goofy smile plastered to my face, utterly ridiculous. There have only been a few other times in my life when I wandered around all day with my feet several feet off the ground and a silly grin on my face, and most of those had to do with love or infatuation (or in some cases, being really, really drunk).

The realistic voice in my head keeps trying to shake me by the shoulders, yelling “Snap out of it! It’s just one article! It’s just one magazine! It took you three years of writing to get this one published!”

To which voice I calmly reply, “Yes, I know. It’s only one article. And yes, thank you very much, I know it’s not for The New Yorker. But it is ONE.” And it is precisely because of this event’s singularity that I am determined to bask in it, to wallow in it, to slather it onto my parched and callused ego. Who knows if there will be other opportunities? And if they do come, who’s to say that they won’t take another three years, or five, or even twenty to arrive?

I feel like my reserves of confidence had become so depleted that in this moment of plenty, I need to lay in new stores against another long, unbroken winter of scarcity. So I am gorging on happiness, feasting on self-satisfaction (and a bagel layered in celebratory swirls of Nutella, my guilty celebratory treat), building reserves of fat contentment to see me through the next dry spell.

Yes, for me, a little validation goes a loooong way; that’s okay, because it may have to. But in the meantime, ahhh. Priceless.