Lost

I once got lost in bed. I know how it sounds, but still, it is true.

It was in the middle of the night and the bedroom was so dark I couldn't see anything. I couldn't see my wife--a sleeping lump--beside me or our dogs lying on their beds. I had to use my other senses to try and solve the mystery my mind could not wrap itself around--where am I!?

My hands frantically slapped around on the fluffy comforter. Yes, I am in bed, but where am I in bed? I felt like I'd been turned upside down, or sideways, or some kind of way that didn't make any sense. How did I get to be positioned that way? Who was fucking with me? Finally, in a complete state of panic, I called out to my wife, who was only two feet away from me, "HONEY! I DON'T KNOW WHERE I AM!"

She calmly and coherently responded, "You're in bed."

"But where in bed?"

Gathering that I wasn't going to let it go and let her peacefully fall back asleep, she snippily said, "Find an edge!"

Find an edge...good advice. So I searched. I found an edge, and then my hand found the wall. Nothing was making any sense. Why did I feel the wall? What edge of the bed was this? How did I get so turned around?

My wife had presented me with a reasonable solution, but it only managed to confuse me more. Like our bed was a plane going down over the Atlantic, I said, "I don't know what's going on!"

My wife sighed loud enough for the walls to shake. I felt the disturbed air of her throwing her covers off.  Her feet padded across the room.

Then the lights came on.

She was standing by the light switch looking less than pleased. I was sitting in the middle of the bed, not turned around, not upside down, but right where I should be. I thanked her, apologized, and we both fell back asleep. (We laughed about it the next morning and still laugh about it today.)

There is no greater feeling than knowing my wife will always lead me back to where I am.

Imaginary Friends

Her name was Pinky. She was a leather-clad, motorcycle riding bad-ass. And she stood two inches tall.

Looking back, I realize she was a miniature Pinky Tuscadero from the TV show "Happy Days". Although, I don't know if I gave her origin much thought at the time. All I knew was that she was there whenever I needed her.

She accompanied me to the bathroom in my grandmother's house.

If I was in the car, she rode her motorcycle along the shadow of the power lines, doing front flips, back flips, and popping wheelies.

I cannot remember if I talked to Pinky out loud, but I do remember we always had two way discussions. I can't help but to think if Pinky were here today, and I was still that small child, if we would text each other instead. Or if she would even exist at all. With video games and all the other shit we have to keep our minds occupied these days, I wonder if children even have the time, or focus, to have an imagination.

Preparation

My behavior yesterday was completely absurd. I definately lost my cool. Anyone who had to deal with me, my sincerest apologies. It was like it was 1776 all over again, and the revolutionary war was taking place in my chest.

But things are back to normal, kind of. I was able to complete, with my wife's assistance, a synopsis of my novel, and I sent it, with my manuscript, along to the agent first thing this morning. I even managed to spell everything correctly. I finally feel like I can breathe again. Now I just want to crawl back into bed and go to sleep.

Because, truth is, I can think about the day someone of importance (not that anyone who has read it up to date isn't important, but they certainly can't get me published) will take an interest in my work. I can think about it, invision it, try to think about how it will feel, but when it comes right down to it, I don't know what I'm going to do, or how truly spectacular it is going to feel. Did I think I would jump out of my chair with my hands over my mouth, repeating, "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god," over and over again? Did I think I would run around the work place like there were firecrackers in my ass, telling my bffs between deep breaths, "An agent wants to see my manuscript!"? Did I think I would take off like a screaming eagle to find my wife--who was surrounded by people--and stare at her like a child needing to tell a parent that the toilet was overflowing and there was water everywhere!?

No, I did not.

But seeing how all that actually happened, it just goes to show that you can try to prepare yourself for the important moments in your life, but your preparation will not help you. The elation is unimaginable. The way my heart beat was unlike anything I have ever experienced. My body shook from the inside. If this agent actually likes my manuscript and thinks he/she can sell it, I may very well throw myself through a picture window so I can run down the street and race a motorcycle.

And if the agent doesn't, I'll start preparing myself again.

Somebody Pinch ME!

I'll be spending most of my day constructing a synopsis for my novel, so this might be it for today's posting. Why, might you ask?

Hold on to your fucking hat.

An agent has requested to see my FULL manuscript!!! But along with it, I need to send a synopsis. And unfortunately, I have yet to write one of those.

I feel like I want to pass out, flip out, or tag out.

Is this really happening?

Query Hell

I am trying to keep my wits about me.

I am doing my best not to stand up and scream.

I just spent the entire morning researching an agent, perfecting the introduction to said agent, only to see, far too late, that the agent is closed to queries until December!

Am I embarrassed? Perhaps.

Do I feel foolish? Oh, yes.

Do I know better? Hell yes, I do.

Did that matter? Apparently not.

To anyone out there who is getting man-handled by this roller coaster of querying, you are not alone. Always make sure you read ahead and find out the agent's submission guidelines before you start perfecting their query. That's Query 101, really.

And, considering the last query I sent out I made the grave mistake of not checking the spelling of the agent's company name and sent it out misspelled (OMG!?!? I'm so embarrassed I could crawl into a hole!), I'm going to go on record and say it's not been a great week for me. I might as well have flipped the agent my middle finger and told him/her to suck it. I can only imagine that's exactly how he/she feels about it too.

But, still, I forge ahead, knowing that if this doesn't happen, I'll feel more foolish than I do right now.

Hump-day Haiku: Politics

Christine O'Donnell
thinks evolution is bunk.
God made her stupid.

Dan Maes was a spy
In the Kansas CIA.
Crazy, one. Sane, zero.

Palin likes to tweet;
Easier than governing.
Shame on you, McCain.

Pimpin' Myself

I have always kept my desire of getting published internal. Sharing it seemed like a serious show of hubris, and that has never been my style. But I can contain it no longer.

So now, with no ego whatsoever, I present to you, <drum roll>

www.kelceymckinley.com

<Confetti falls from the sky. Horns blow in harmony. A parade passes by.>

I could say that every tenth visitor gets a trip to Tahiti, but that would be lying.

If you have a direct line to Jesus, tell him to put it on his Facebook page.

On a side note, I sent a query off today. Maybe if we all click our heels together three times and repeat, "There's no place like Tattered Cover, there's no place like Tattered Cover, there's no place like Tattered Cover," it will peak this agent's interest.

If it doesn't, I'll know some of you out there didn't do it.

The Bases

On the way to dinner last night, my wife and I were discussing the sexual bases. We were more confused than President Bush when he was told the country was under attack.

It went something like this:

Me: I wonder what the bases mean today.
Wife: Bases?
Me: Sexually, I mean.
Wife: What did they mean when we were kids?
Me: I don't know.
We look at each other like someone should know.
Wife: Me either.
At this point, I'm thinking, yeah, right...
Me: Well, first base was kissing, right?
Wife: I think so.
Me: And second base was a handful of boob?
Wife: Maybe...?
Me: And third base was touching <insert your favorite nether region because the word I actually used is not PG-13>? And a home run was penetration?
We look at each other, still puzzled.
Wife: I don't know.
Me: Me either.

Being a sexual prude in high school (which is really easy to do when you're not attracted to the gender everyone on your side is raving about), the bases were never clearly defined to me. Whenever the topic of sexual acts was brought up, I giggled or oohed-and-aahed along as if to say, "Oh, yeah. I've totally done all that too." (I still do this today.) But the truth of the matter was that it was terrifying territory for a confused baby-dyke who didn't know that two women could touch each other. I'd never seen anything like it with my very own eyes, so how was I to know.

And then, blessed be, Basic Instinct hit the big screen. I dragged my boyfriend at the time to see it about fifty times (a mild exaggeration). He was as confused as a boy in a theater watching the same shitty movie he'd just seen with his still-in-awe girlfriend. When Sharon and the other actress, who was never seen again, kissed each other, it was like harps started playing, like a spotlight shone on the duh! of my psyche. I decided then and there that I wanted to be an actress so I, too, could kiss other women.

When I watch Basic Instinct today, I see it for what it is: a ridiculous movie with no redeeming qualities. But I will always give it the props it is due: it got me thinking about things that have led me to who I am today.

So, when I asked my wife what the bases are today, I was looking to her for guidance. Seeing how she doesn't know either, I can only guess:

First base: kissing
Second base: intercourse
Third base: pregnancy
Home run: creating a make-shift family around this idea that two people who sleep together are perfect for each other.

I am grateful for my sexual prudence. And I am grateful I am not in school today. Although, I do regret, knowing what I know now, that I didn't get a chance to bag a cheerleader.

Assumptions: A Rebuttal

(This post is in response to a blog that was brought to my attention yesterday, which I shall not name.)

I am perfectly calm.

I am not operating from a place of maliciousness.

I simply provide another point of view.

A woman is driving. She is a mother. As she looks next to her and sees her daughter beside her, happily singing along to the childish music coming out of the speakers, her heart swells to the size of the ocean. The mother cannot believe how blessed she is to be consumed by love. And then, nothing.

The woman wakes up. She still feels like a mother, but when she is told, in the confines of her hospital bed, that her daughter did not survive, the mother stupidly runs her fingers over the bandage on her forehead. It is explained to her that fifteen stitches were required--her head busted open when it forcefully hit the steering wheel.

She doesn't understand. It makes no sense. Because now she is a mother without a child.

She is home. She must find a way to climb out of bed every morning. When she looks in the mirror, her scar is a constant reminder of what she has lost, and the hole that resides in the middle of her. The thirty minutes it takes in the morning to apply the base and powder to her forehead is gut wrenching. Her hands shake. Her heart beats faster and faster. The tears are on stand by. But she knows that the torture she spends each morning is worth it because it saves her from going through the entire day feeling that way. Once it is complete and the scar is covered, she can glimpse herself in the mirror and not be immediately reminded of what she once had and loved.

A little girl is playing in the kitchen. Her father keeps telling her to stop running around the table, but it is too late. The little girl brings the pot of hot water down onto her head. She is burned to the point that on one side of her face the skin is bright red. Over the years, the color will dull, but it will always look like leather. Make-up allows her to balance the two sides of her face.

While these examples are extreme (but relevant), they can be, and often are, boiled down. A woman's internal strength is brought out in a multitude of ways. No one gets to decide how she finds it but her.

I am a firm believer that everyone has the right to find their own way, using whatever means they deem necessary.

To assume that women do what they do because of men is irresponsible, irrational, and ignorant. I am no more qualified to tell a man who has been kicked in the scrotum to stop rolling around on the ground and stand up already than any man is to assume they know why a woman wears make-up or high-heels.

Until you have had a vagina, you do not get a say in the business of women.

No Never Felt So Good

Since my wife is currently sleeping, I reach out to anyone to share my news. I just received this reply to a query I recently sent out to an agent:

"Thanks for sending me your query for SIMPLY UGLY.  While an interesting idea, I'm afraid that I don't think I would be able to sell your novel in this tough marketplace.  That doesn't mean it isn't saleable, but it does mean I'm not the right agent to try and take it out. I'm sorry I have to pass on requesting more material, but I want to wish you luck in finding a good home for your novel.  Thank you for the opportunity to consider."

To this agent, I would like to say, you have melted my butter and made a batch of hope cookies. You have blown up the balloons in my chest and let go of the string. You have single-handedly built a float for my one-day parade. If I could, I would buy you a Coke. And teach the world to sing. In perfect harmony.

(It should be noted that I do not endorse or promote the ingestion of sodas, especially when they are made with high fructose corn syrup, which the industry is currently trying to change the name to "corn sugar". Do they really thing we're that stupid? Oh, wait...they do.)

While I know this kind of promise is not always a given or guaranteed, I will take this small shred of light and keep it with me, knowing that it will go out. But I will not give up. I will not quit. As the rejections pour in, I will remember that it only takes one yes. You and your friends and your family and your aquantences and your pets and your children and your favorite movie stars will read Simply Ugly one day, even if I have to invite you all to my house and read it to you from the comforts of my own sofa.

Remind me of this tomorrow, when I'm feeling down about my future in the writing world.