chelseahenderson

motherhood is…

Fielding approximately 278 questions a day (more if you have daughters). Maintaining a healthy supply of band aids and Neosporin because even accidents that don’t draw blood require bandaging. Making tacos every week because sometimes you need to hear someone yell ” yippee!” when dinner is announced. Doing laundry. Stepping on small Lego pieces that leave you cursing and hopping in pain. Officiating over homework that gets increasingly hard to figure out.

Seeing pictures of your children and noting how much they’ve grown, even if the photo was taken yesterday. Hearing their conversations when they don’t know you’re listening and realizing you’ve taught them well. Watching them struggle but also thrive. Hoping beyond hope that just once your kid will get a hit instead of walking or striking out. Discussing a book you’ve both read.

Nurturing. Forgiving. Loving. Aching. Creating small humans who blossom into smart, funny, loving and caring beings, part you but fully themselves.

tipping the scales

I never weigh myself. Like never never. Except once a year at the doctor’s office. And without exception, I always weigh exactly the same. My body might shift, be tighter if I’m working out more, softer if I’m not, but the reading at the annual weigh in never changes.

Or it never did. Until March.

I went in for a follow up. I was surprised I was being weighed again. “Didn’t we just do this in November?” I thought to myself. But I get it. SOP. So I stepped up on the clunky metal scale (does anyone but doctors use those old fashioned scales anymore?) and feigned indifference while the nurse kept moving the little bracket farther and farther to the right. But then she needed to change the base setting. I gulped. And she kept moving that little bracket of death. A touch more. A touch more. A touch more.

I came in 18 pounds heavier than I was in November. “The scale is wrong, right?” I asked the nurse. She blushed and made a note in my chart, probably one that said “another delusional patient who thinks she’s smaller than she is”.

I sat in the examination room in a flimsy paper robe and cried.

The doctor came in and asked what was wrong. I told her. She glanced at the chart and looked at me. “Well, I think you look great. Our scales could be a few pounds off. What does your scale at home say?”

“Yeah, I don’t own one. I only weigh myself here.”

“Well, get a scale if you are concerned, and only weigh yourself on that scale. In the meantime, I’m happy to test your thyroid if you’re worried.”

But the truth was, I knew it wasn’t my thyroid. It’s that I work from home. In front of a computer. A few days a week, I dress in semi-professional clothes, but the long winter meant fewer dresses and more stretchy pants. Big sweaters. Layers. I lived in flattering yoga pants. Clothes I could hide in. I realized it wasn’t the dry cleaner’s fault certain items wouldn’t zipper. Blame the wine. The love of cheese. And my previously held belief that as long as I worked out, I could eat whatever I wanted. I could only blame myself.

So I ordered a scale. It measured me at 4 pounds less than the doctor’s office, so I grasped onto the new number for dear life. I set some goals, but moderate. I just can’t be a crazy person. I like spin, barre and yoga, but I suck at denial and restrictions. (Hence the overflowing shoe closet.) A diet would make me crave what I couldn’t have. But I could give up wine during the week. Eat smaller portions. I now get why my mom ate just salad for dinner every night when I was growing up. You can’t control an aging metabolism. I’ve officially reached the age where I look at food and gain weight.

It’s been 8 weeks and I’ve lost 8 pounds. I feel both good and not about that. Good that I’m now zipping pants without sucking it in but bad that I still have far to go for some of my summer dresses. There is one side benefit though, serendipitously realized the other day. At least some of my added cushioning has made its way to my chest. For the first time in my life, I’m wearing a D cup.

It’s all about the silver linings.

Reinvention

When I was in high school, I planned to major in drama when I went I college. But then I didn’t get the lead role – or any role for that matter – in the senior play, crushing my Broadway dreams. I went to the other extreme: I decided to major in pre-law.

My step-mother talked me out of it. “Do you really want to be a lawyer?” she asked. “You’re too diplomatic for that.”

Diplomacy wasn’t a major so I went with International Relations. “What kind of job are you going to get as an IR major,” the adults around me asked. I didn’t really know. I figured I’d travel the world and eventually become a diplomat.

Senior year, the need for a respectable job looming, I took the Foreign Service exam.

(As an aside, my creative writing instructor encouraged me to become a writer. “You’re talented. You should really consider this writing thing.” His words still ring through my brain on a loop.)

On the Foreign Service exam, I scored one point lower than the cut-off for an interview. (14 years later, pregnant with Colin, I was offered that interview as part of the settlement of a class action lawsuit, but I wasn’t really in a position to take a post in a third world country, as amazing as that sounds to me now.)

I wanted to go abroad, mostly because I was in love with a foreigner. I applied for the Peace Corps. Got an interview. Was told my liberal arts degree didn’t arm me with any applicable skills. “I want to volunteer,” I pleaded. “I can teach English as a Second Language.” I needed experience to prove it.

So I applied to a program to teach English in the Czech Republic for a summer. It was a fabulous experience. This was the answer. I’d go home, get a Master’s degree in Education, travel the world teaching English.

I got a job teaching ESL in Boston and went to school at night. But three days after graduating with my M.Ed., I had an epiphany: my lifelong dream was to work on Capitol Hill.

I didn’t know the first thing about how to get a job on Capitol Hill. I flew to DC. Walked unscheduled into Senator Susan Collins’ office.

“Hi, I’m from Maine. I’ve always wanted to work on Capitol Hill and was wondering if someone could talk to me about the process.” That “talk” ended with a job offer.

I moved, driving solo in a U-Haul truck with all my worldly belongings to a city where I knew two people. I made friends. I figured out what “recess” meant and how to get to the Senate floor. At some point I was given the responsibility of writing letters on environmental issues, which led to a job on the Senate Environment and Public Works Committee.

A moderate republican environmentalist was born. The rest is on my LinkedIn page.

Everything opportunity I’ve had in DC happened by accident. I’m some weird poster child for being in the right place at the right time. But were all these career moves right?

While I balance consulting for myself with writing my novel, more and more of my passion flows toward the latter. Just have coffee, lunch, a drink with me and time how many minutes I spend talking about the book versus talking about lobbying. I don’t picture myself pounding the marble halls of Congress forever. In an ideal world, I don’t picture myself pounding the halls of Congress next year. I know how dangerous it is to put that in writing; some future employer or client could use it against me. “She’s not dedicated enough to policy. She just wants to write her book.”

But that’s far from true. I’m still passionate about my issues, and as long as working on them helps me sustain this dream of being published, I’ll continue to pursue energy work with gusto. It’s admittedly hard. This isn’t a town that embraces the unconventional. By my own invention, I don’t fit the norm.

But for now I’ll wear the label of wacky lobbyist-slash-aspiring-writer and hope that my professional luck continues. Maybe someday, that long ago writing instructor will see my published book and remember my name.

the winter of my contentment

I know it’s technically spring, but my down coat still hangs front and center in my closet; I dare not put away my snow boots or pack up the hats and gloves. Many have groaned and sighed at the beating we took this winter. We may not have had storms that packed the punch of those belonging to snowmaggedon, but the season was long and bitter and won’t soon be forgot.

I loved it.

Sure, I rolled my eyes in sympathy with the complainers, commiserated with the cold and weary. But I had my fingers crossed behind my back as tightly as the scarf was wound around my neck.

Winter is the most romantic season of all. And while I spent it alone, there’s nothing like wind chills in the single digits and a fire roaring in the fire place to inspire great writing. I haven’t exactly been the most social being the last four months. Winter exacerbated my reserve, and writing gave me something productive to do behind closed doors (sometimes under piles of blankets). Now I get why there are so many great Russian writers.

Perhaps my favorite day this winter came just before spring officially came on the books. The St. Patrick’s Day storm lived up to the hype, dropping nine inches in our town, closing the federal government and schools. (As a sole proprietor, I follow whatever closing decision is most advantageous to my needs.) My dear friends hosted happy hour. Outside. In their backyard. A fire blazed in the fire pit. Snowbanks kept our Guinness and wine cold. We bundled up and sat close, making the most of what we could not control. I felt truly social for the first time since December, huddled over a fire as the snow fell and kids sledded nearby. I wanted that night to never end.

I’m out of tights. Open-toed shoes are waiting in the closet. It feels awkward to wear a black sweater in mid-April. (Easter dress, schmeaster dress.) My down coat really does need a turn in the washing machine and my wool coats are ready for dry cleaning. My yard is happily popping with tulips and daffodils and I would like to open the windows, but I’m sad to see the winter go. This winter was made glorious summer by my embracing its chilly offerings.

where have all the bookstores gone?

Remember the days when if you had a little extra time, you’d meander into a bookstore? Walk between the aisles, looking for something new or maybe a long lost book written by a favorite author? Nowadays we instead spend our leisure time taking Buzz Feed quizzes and following on Facebook the lives of people who wouldn’t under other circumstances make the friend cut.

I miss bookstores. Hey, I fell for it like everyone else. I jumped on the Kindle bandwagon early. It felt safer to travel with an e-reader in case I’m ever stuck on the Tarmac for so long that if I finish my book, I conveniently have another waiting without all the bulk. But lately I’ve been craving books. Real paper and binding books.

I love the way books smell. I love the way they feel. You can bathe with them, sleep with them, and even dribble ice cream on them without concern.

My desire to trade my electronics for paper did not come out of nowhere. I’m inspired by the fact that I JUST WROTE A NOVEL and at some point in the undefined future, I’m going to want people to buy my book. And not the electronic version (though if that’s the only way to get you to read it, then fine). I want you all to buy the tangible version and take it with you everywhere so passers by ask, “hey, how is it?” To which you will reply, “I can’t put it down.”

But I digress.

These days when I buy a book, I usually order from Amazon because there are no more bookstores. I read an interview with a literary agent who said if you are a debut author and you aren’t going to a bookstore at least once a month to buy in hardback another debut author’s work, you aren’t supporting other writers. I want to help, I do. I believe in karma. Please someone let me pay full price for a hard cover book. But where?

Today I tried to hit the only Barnes and Noble I can think of, which I know is really no better than Amazon but forget finding an independent bookstore. Traffic jams, too many tourists and lack of parking got the better of me and I gave up the mission. This evening I stopped by Busboys and Poets. While I appreciate the curated (i.e. small) fiction collection, it wasn’t as satisfying of an experience. You can’t get lost in between two bookshelves.

I’m determined to bring back books. Let’s make it sexy again to carry a book. (I’d totally date that book toting guy.) If we demand it, they shall build it, right? As shopping trends move toward buying local, don’t forget that there are and should be more places to buy your reads than Amazon.

tales of a music festival

I just spent the weekend at Coachella. I significantly underestimated how cool I would feel just saying that. I might never be the same.

I must admit that reaction was mixed when I announced to friends that I was going.

YOU are going to Coachella?

What the hell is Coachella?

For those who don’t know, it’s a 3-day music festival in Palm Springs, California. Tickets go on sale a year in advance and move quickly. Luckily for me, I have a friend who was on the ball and bought two tickets last May. And even luckier, the friend she was supposed to go with bailed at the last minute, giving me the opportunity to slip in and take her coveted wristband.

I spent hours going over the lineup. I consider myself to know a fair amount about music but I was shocked at the number of musicians whose names I didn’t recognize. But that was fine. I was eager to discover my next new favorite band.

I also spent an absurd amount of time trying to figure out what to wear. Music festivals are not runways but the fashion is certainly a sight to behold. I consulted my friend Allie at Wardrobe Oxygen who is not only a fashion blogger but an experienced music festival-ite. She wrote a nice post on what to wear to Coachella that I only clicked on approximately 25,000 times as I surveyed my utterly unhip wardrobe.

In spite of my eager cramming for Coachella, no articles or playlists could have prepared me for what we encountered. I’m going to be talking for some time about the pervasiveness of bralets as tops. I only hope the trend of wearing your denim shorts unbuttoned and folded down to reveal underwear is contained to the desert. Many skimpy bikinis were on display, not my first choice of what to wear to sit in the dusty grass. Hell, it’s not my first choice of what to wear to the beach.

While the style was interesting the music was phenomenal. I still have a medley of Broken Bells songs stuck in my head. They were a favorite before the festival but earned my deeper adoration with their live performance. I discovered a new favorite: Future Islands. Sadly I missed the much-written about Beyoncé appearance on her sister’s stage because, frankly, I didn’t know Solange was her sister. I am to be forgiven for that because I got close enough to Jared Leto to run my fingers through his ombréd mane, though of course I resisted such temptation.

I discovered a new skill. I’m an adept crowd pusher. (Now I know how rough it is to be salmon.) I’m still working the dust out of my eyes from Saturday’s sand storm. (Weekend two attendees: bring swim goggles.) Six pairs of shoes turned out to be way too many but three hats was just the right number.

This year has been about doing things I haven’t done before. You know, like writing a book. Coachella fit neatly into the “experience I’ve never had” box. I feel fortunate that I had the opportunity to attend. I wasn’t even the oldest one there, as some so-called friends might have suggested I would be. And who knows, maybe next year I’ll rock the bralet.

finding an agent: worse than online dating

If you’ve been around me at all over the last three months, you’ve probably heard me make the joke that as a debut novelist, the process of finding an agent is worse than online dating. Except it isn’t a joke at all. Not that I’m a huge match.com expert. The one time I tried it many years ago left me permanently scarred even though I went on zero dates.

Let’s hope I have better luck on my agent search.

If you don’t have a literary agent [eligible dating material] running in your social circles, you have to make a list of whom to query [join an online dating site]. That’s hard. There are agent databases [online dating sites] which share basic information like agency [bachelor] address [age, exaggerated height, eye color] and the genres [desired age range, kid preference, hobbies] the agent [prospective suitor] is interested in representing [finding in a partner]. You also get a sampling [photos] of their authors [adventurous vacations] many whom [places] you’ve never heard of [traveled to] which makes you feel guilty because you consider yourself an avid reader [traveler].

I’ve spent weeks amassing my initial list of 20 dream agents [dates]. I could end up querying [trying to date] 50-100, depending on my success with the first tranche [few suitors].

In all seriousness, once my manuscript is ready, the next step is to cold call agents, except I can’t actually call at all because phone calls are prohibited. Some agents accept email, though no attachments. Just one long message that includes cover letter, synopsis (sometimes 2-3 pages, sometimes 10-15) and maybe an excerpt from the beginning of my story. In many cases, you’re instructed to send the cover letter, synopsis and manuscript by snail mail, unless the literary agency has noted to only send a cover letter and synopsis because they’ll reach out if they want to read more.

Each query [photo] has to be personally tailored [perfect] so that they agent’s intern [bachelor’s best friend] who does the first round of cuts doesn’t throw me in the discard pile. I can’t compare myself to any classic writers [supermodels]. I’m supposed to share why I think I’d be compatible with that agent [bachelor].

Oh, and don’t forget to include a SASE for the rejection letter. Yes, you have to pay for your own rejection. That’s worse than a breakup text.

Speaking of, you don’t get rejected on the quality of your work [personality] at all, but on how riveting [gorgeous] your cover letter [photo] is. Are you kidding me? I just wrote a 95,000-word novel [am witty, warm, charming] and I have to catch your attention with my cover letter [looks]?

My first choice agent was written up recently as a rising star. She seems like someone I’d like as a friend. I picture us drinking a bottle of wine and talking books. She happens to be looking for the next hot debut author, a definite bonus. Then I saw her picture. She was wearing great, Chelsea-like eyewear and tall black boots.

Yes, I could work with [date] her.

time of reckoning

I’m still in a bit of awe that I finished writing the first draft of my novel. It’s the most natural thing I’ve ever done but it also feels like it happened to someone else. I appreciate the warm wishes as I reached that milestone. I’m truly humbled by the positive response and support. And it’s cute when people ask, “when’s it coming out?” because you see, writing the book wasn’t the hard part. I know I can write. (I already wrote the outline and ending to my second book.) But there are many grueling steps to before you’ll find my debut novel gracing bookstore shelves.

The last you heard, I shipped my baby to a professional manuscript consultant to edit. Initially, she told me that she wouldn’t be able to get to it for a week because she was finishing up another project. That was fine with me. I needed some time away from my story and characters. So imagine my surprise when I received her complete edits last Friday, the day she was scheduled to start reading.

“That was fast,” I wrote her via email. “I’m going to take that as a good sign.”

“It is a good sign!” she replied. “I have a problem manuscript to look at… it needs so much work…Your novel is really strong.” In fact, she couldn’t put it down.

I’ve been on cloud nine over her summary of what she loved: the writing (“it reads real”), my main character (“luminous… so alive”) and the ending (“moving”). As for what needs work? Well, I haven’t gotten there yet. There was no way I could read her comments last weekend given the kids’ schedule. Then I was traveling early this week. Yesterday I had my 2014 turn at Warriors. I haven’t had but an hour or maybe two in between gigs, meetings, obligations all week. I’m not avoiding the task at hand. I swear. I look forward to perfecting my manuscript. I need to set a new deadline. But really, I need the luxury of an uninterrupted day to get started.

Lucky for me, the universe is going to deliver. Snow is in the forecast tonight. Enough snow for delays and cancelations tomorrow. With any luck, I’ll be home all day with my manuscript. While everyone in the DC Metro area is rolling their eyes at winter overstaying its welcome, I relish it.

Just please let the power stay on. I have a manscript to polish.

yoga pants: the gateway drug to mom jeans

I love my yoga pants, though I have to admit I don’t do much downward facing dog in them. For yoga, I prefer tight crops especially when practicing in rooms with temperatures 95 degree plus. But for almost every other activity, yoga pants are fair play. Now that I work from home, there are days I never get out of them. Yoga pants are a critical component of this aspiring novelist’s wardrobe.

If I do have to dress up for a meeting, the first thing I do when I get home is change back into my yoga pants. When a friend invites me over, I ask myself: are yoga pants appropriate for this social interaction? More and more, I want to wear them outside the confines of my home office. I try to dress them up, of course, with a sweater and maybe a cute pair of flats or a t-shirt and jean jacket in warmer temps. I had a version of this outfit on over the weekend visiting my college roommate.

Chris: “I wouldn’t have thought to wear my yoga pants with tiger print flats.”

Yep, that’s me. I’ll do anything to justify wearing these most comfortable and flattering of pants.

Because let’s be honest about jeans. They aren’t comfortable. I recently had dinner with a friend (who shall remain nameless) who after our meal, pushed back her chair, unbuttoned the jeans that were digging into her waist, and let me feel the lump of scar tissue in her belly where the button of her jeans typically hit. I mean, ouch.

Nameless friend: “Wouldn’t it be nice if they made jeans with the same stretch as yoga pants?”

Me: “They do. They’re called mom jeans.”

Yes, our love for the comfort of yoga pants makes us yearn for elastic waistbands. I don’t even like my formerly beloved Minnie pants anymore. It’s yoga pants or bust. So please, someone, make yoga pants in workplace appropriate fabrics. Or make denim more comfortable without the stigma of a stretchy waistband. In the meantime, I’m going to go debate with myself whether I can get away with yoga pants for my meeting this afternoon.

parting is such sweet sorrow

I don’t know whether to laugh, cry, drink, sleep or throw up. Maybe I will just go to yoga.

I’m elated, but exhausted. My confidence is high, but I have moments of self-doubt. My book is done. At least stage one. At 91,837 words, it’s probably too long for a debut novel. It has a working title. Emailing it to my editor (you know I wanted to say “my editor”) approximately 22 minutes ago was harder than sending my kids off to school for the first time.

I set an initial goal to finish writing by March 31st, but as the words came freely, I upped that self-imposed deadline to COB today. That doesn’t mean I wasn’t editing/writing up until the end. In the moments before sending off my manuscript, I was seeing double. I was probably doing more harm than good. Pencils down. Step away from the computer, Chelsea.

A little piece of me is gone. I already miss my baby, though I’m glad it’s temporarily out of my hands. I know it will be a better story after undergoing a professional edit. I can’t wait to be reunited with my characters and their plot lines to rewrite, rethink, restructure.

If I’ve canceled lunch/drink plans with you, cried on your shoulder, sent you panicky texts/emails, or just generally been unexplainably weepy, absent-minded, spacey, anti-social, insecure and/or self-absorbed, I’m sorry. I owe you one.

The hard work lies ahead. (Trying to find an agent sounds worse than on-line dating.) This journey is far from over. But thank you all who have helped me get this far. You know who you are.