My Year of Unreasonable Dreams

Welcome, and thank you for the follow – already I have achieved an unfathomable amount of support.  It is greatly appreciated!

Unreasonable Dreams Day One (actually day nine but that was all in a notebook)

Someone from the SLO night writers group said that she gets up an hour before her day needs to begin so that she can write when she is fresh.  Too bad I cannot do that – I woke up three minutes ago (because a leaf blower was blaring through my window at 6:58AM) and had a full eighteen lines of my best ‘writing’ thoughts but then had to pee, pull on a robe, cue up the laptop and zap, those terrific and ingenious words are gone.  Oh well, at least I am up at 7 not my usual 8 so going to try anyways.

It was something about last night’s Family Feud Question: Women have cellulite, what do men have that is an unwanted or unattractive body thingy.  Wrinkles, hairy backs, pimples…there were seven answers on the board…all of which WE GET TOO.  Truly unfair.  I laughed while watching and listening but then woke up feeling a bit miffed about the fact that we get cellulite even as young women – sit on the lawn chair just the right way and you can really ruin a person’s day.  They might be enjoying a day in the sun when BLAMMO the sight of lumpy bumpy cottage cheesy thigh permeates their vision and cannot be unseen.  How do I know this you ask?  Having been born this way, relatively small in size, I can assure you I have it.  And no you cannot see it because even I do not look in the mirror at me anymore.  No effing way I am letting anyone else see me either.

There was something about almost throwing up IRL when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror recently.  I was headed into the shower – Oh that was it, my hand bumped the shower wall just so and four knuckles cracked!  The sound made me so queasy that I leaned over the toilet certain I was about to vom.  Just out of the corner of my eye, I saw about five belly fat folds in the reflection of my two mirrors.  One is the vanity, other is over the sink, I could see four fat fuck ME’s right there in the room with real me and it jolted me out of my thoughts of nausea over the knuckles.

So then backing up, I maybe awoke thinking about noises that bother me like the way men crack their knuckles in public.  ICK.  But it was more than that – here I am seven minutes later – not a chance I can remember back that far so you see, a memoir is completely out of the question at my age!

The story I have always wanted to write is about encounters I have had with the opposite sex.  Some good, most bad.  Who wants to read a story about that?  Well yesterday I read what Molly Ringwald said, then another time Lupita Nyong’o NYT piece.  Crazy similar stories to mine.  Like they stole my material.  I never had to do a naked line up the way that Jennifer Lawrence described, but girl maybe someday you’ll let me tell you about working at an oil company for my first real job after college!

Once I really find a free 90 days, I will go back to writing my lucky me book with just the funny stuff.  Better chance of someone A) wanting to read “surprisingly upbeat” horror stories and B) having something good to say in the thousands of book reviews I am certain to receive (that got you laughing no?).

Back to the title of this ‘blog post’ –

I took a writing class on December 10, my birthday.  Turns out the writing coach offering the class has the exact same birthday – same year even but let’s not get too detailed here! She came into my universe through my youngest daughter – our girls were on a team together and then became roommates.  Incredible women. This coach gal, we’ll call her Anne, recently posted a 90 day challenge on her blog.  For 90 days I was to chase after something I had always wanted, or something like that.

That challenge had me learning all about ‘queries’ and publishing, agents versus editors. A thrilling start to the 90, though disappointing end in that I decided the world of publishing is a bit over inflated and defs out of my reach. $30,000 was an actual offer I got to ‘ghost write’ a story I had written.  Now, if I had that kind of money to throw at a story, would I not book myself a nice suite in Hawaii and ghost me?! Yes, I would.  Editors suggested that for a line by line rewrite of my ‘horribly messed up’ prose they would only be $5,000-$18,000?!

Initially I had this new respect and appreciation for ‘writers’ if in fact they were pullng this kind of feat off on a book.  36 rejections and 10 re-writes says the women whose movie I attended recently.  No thanks.  Keep all your big dollars and let me be with my writing.

The blog post Rhondy!  Coach Anne is now hosting a year of Unreasonable Dreams.  Hers has something to do with adoption, Run DMC, and a bunch of people singing Dream On.  I like it.  Genuinely unreasonable.  I wanted something just like that.  Mine is different.

Mine is simply 1,642 readers to read the first ten or twenty pages of the story I wrote which is similar to Lupita’s, Molly’s and Jane Does all across this beautiful nation we call The United States.  United.  That got you laughing right?

The story is messed up, seemingly unreasonable (the material is straight up IRL and happens all the time ) — and I know about its messed up status after sharing it with a few literary folks.  “Sorry Rhondy, this piece has far too many mis-steps and POVs and grammatical, fictitious, publishable errors.  This is no good for publishing.”  One helpful lad on Reedsy went so far as to WARN me with italics in his message about the danger of self-publishing sh$%t like this.  An author will lose any and all respect of their potential audience. (Insert way more here)

Great news folks, I am not an author or a writer.  My name is…well I might just change my name on that there self-published piece because dammit, its important. My oldest daughter has this wizardess of a room mate that is helping me get it to BLURB!

For too long we have been ashamed of what happened last weekend, last year – a century or two ago.  Believing it was somehow our fault that we had been groped or drugged or assaulted or battered.  Talking back to your father in my day was a certain belt lashing.  To your mother, the wooden spoon.

Abuse is abuse. It is ugly and horrifying and real.  The story I wrote is real, but I had to convert names and events and such to protect survivors – but yes, elite college athletes do talk like that with “motha fuckah” and a whole lot of “betch don’t tell me that, you know you want it” – they really do.

My unreasonable dream of having 1,642 readers review that story hasn’t started yet. Stay tuned.

My older daughter’s friend is helping me to get it to BLURB so that I can print and circulate a few hard copies in my quest.  I already have about 30 emails/readers without any editor or ghost writer or publisher, so maybe I am making this “unreasonable” when in fact it is very do able!

I do think it’ll have to begin with a blog…which is how you got this little ditty being posted to some form of blog site in just a few minutes. Welcome to RHONDY’s YEAR OF UNREASONABLE DREAMS. And thanks Anne, your challenges are keeping my spirit afloat in this crazy world of ‘potential nuclear holocaust orange face man at the helm’ times!

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