MY EPIC PARENTING FAIL, or How My Thirteen Year-old Daughter Metaphorically Kicked My Ass.
Deep breath…Welcome to my AUTHOR WEB PAGE!!!Betcha didn’t even know I wanted to be an author, did you? Or maybe you’ve seen the “Works at Author, Writing” on the About section of my Facebook page and thought, “How cute.”Guys, it’s not only that I want to be an author. I’m actually an honest-to-goodness author! I’ve written an actual book and guess what. It isn’t just good…it’s beautiful, hilarious, important, inspiring and heartbreaking. For. REALS.“Oh. What’s it called?” you ask. “Maybe I’ve heard of it,” you say.Nope. You haven’t, and I’ll tell you why. Because I’m a lily-livered pip-squeak chicken, that’s why.Self-promotion is HARD. 
And querying agents sucks donkey balls. Big ones. I’m working with an incredible editor/consultant but this process is intimidating as hell. I’ve also been toying with the idea of self-publishing, but truthfully I spend a huge amount of energy begging the Universe to send the perfect agent/advocate to my door. She will advocate her heart out for me and we will ride off into the sunset together making international book and movie deals…Time to cut to the nitty-gritty. I sheepishly present to you:MY EPIC PARENTING FAIL, or: How My Thirteen Year-old Daughter Metaphorically Kicked My Ass.Background: I’m a self-proclaimed Literature Snob. My sons are too. So is my ex-husband. And we’re all writers. While we don’t go around publicly belittling what other people read, we have certainly turned our noses up in private.Claire is the baby of the family at thirteen. She’s not a lit snob. In fact, before yesterday, I’d have said Claire isn’t really into reading. She likes watching and creating anime, especially Naruto anime. I wouldn’t even mention that she adores reading Naruto fan fiction because in all honesty it never occurred to me that fan fiction counts as reading. And we (her brothers and father and I) have never been shy about letting her know our opinion on the subject, even though none of us has ever read any fan fiction and we have nothing to base our opinions on.Nice, aren’t we?(Don’t answer that…it gets much worse).The other day Claire stayed home from school because she didn’t feel well. We were sitting next to each other on the couch in the family room, she with her laptop and I with mine. I’m working on a query when Claire casually says: “Ugh. I have writer’s block.” 
I smile and think it’s sweet she’s writing something. I pat her knee. “That’s okay, Poopsie. Just draw one of your Naruto characters. You’ll get unstuck.”“But I haven’t posted in a long time,” she says, “and people really like the story. I feel like I’m letting them down.”“Letting who down with what?” I ask.“My readers.”“Your what, now?”“My readers. I have readers in almost twenty different countries.”“Readers of what?”“My fan fiction.”“The Naruto fan fiction you write in your journal?”“Yeah. I post it on-line.”“Haha. Lol.” (I actually said “lol”. It’s a word now). “You’re so cute, Clairesy!”She starts reading off names of countries where her readers live.***I know some of you are shaking your heads now and thinking to yourself: Oh WOW. That is an epic parenting fail! How could she not know what her thirteen year-old daughter was doing on line? Doesn’t she monitor her?? Well…enjoy your judgment, friends. I asked myself that, too. But that’s not the parenting fail. And it isn't twenty countries. It's thirty-one.***“Claire. Are you serious?”“Yes.”“How long have you been posting?”“Since the end of July. I’ve posted five chapters.”“Show me.”“No way.”“Right now, Claire. I want to read it.”“Sorry, you don’t get to read it. You guys always make fun of me. You’ll think it’s stupid.”“I won’t, I promise.”“I said no. It’s my decision.”“It isn’t a decision, Claire. I’m your mother. It’s my responsibility to monitor what you do on the Internet.”“Then I’ll take it down, but I’m not letting you read it.”And that is when I realized I’d alienated my daughter. By judging something she loved as beneath me. Epic. FAIL.Before I left to pick sixteen year-old Aidan up from school I text my Ex. He’s in Romania on business.“Are you still up?” No answer.“I have a parenting dilemma.”My phone rings. Aaron sounds tired. “What happened?”I hate how shrill my voice sounds while I explain the situation.After he recovers from shock he says, “Okay. First, tell my why you want to read what she posted. Is it because you’re afraid of inappropriate content?”“Ugh. Not really. But I feel like a bad parent because I didn’t know she was doing it.”“I get that. But two things come to mind. First thing, you aren’t naïve that way. Look at her friends. Look at her activities. You check her cell phone and you always know where she is. That’s not what this is about.”“I know, I know. It’s just I can’t believe I…”“Second thing,” he interrupts my downward guilt-spiral, “Jane. She is just like YOU.”“I KNOW. That’s why I’m torn! Writing is so private!!"(Editor’s note: Aidan just came and asked me what I’m writing and I hid my MacBook from him because I didn’t want him to see). I know exactly how Claire feels about sharing what she’s written, especially with someone who has a history of making fun of her genre of choice.Poor Aaron. I couldn’t get my self-guilt and shame words out fast enough…like a magician pulling toxic colorful scarfs from her mouth.“Jane. Tell her you’re sorry. Don’t make this a power struggle.”I thanked him and apologized for waking him up and when Aidan got in the car I blurted, “Get this. While you and I are whining about never getting published, Claire is internationally famous.”“Excuse me?” He’s floored.“Yep.”We share a solemn stare. Both our asses have been kicked. By a thirteen year-old.When I get home, I knock on Claire’s door. “Go away.”“Clairesy. I’m so sorry for how I acted. I’m so proud of you. You are passionate about your writing and you didn’t listen to anyone who told you it was silly. You didn’t even ask for help. You wanted to put it out there and you made it happen. You inspire me. And I promise, if you ever trust me enough to let me read it I won’t judge you. I swear. I love you Poopsie.”And that was it. She didn’t open the door and I didn’t ask her to. But after dinner she brought her laptop into the family room and sat next to me on the couch again.“You can read two chapters.”I whisper a silent thank you to all the little gods.After several, “Where are you now’s?” she finally asks me to read it out loud (I’m super good at it), and GUYS. I am in AWE of my daughter. If I’m generous—to me—I will tell you her witty dialogue reminds me of my own, and her character development is on fleek. I genuinely laugh several times. I’m reading FAN FICTION about NARUTO and I LIKE IT.When I’m done with all five chapters, we read the reviews and comments together, too. I look at my daughter like the talented, determined, strong woman she is becoming, like the inspiration she is. It's humbling how close I came to never having this opportunity because of my limited view of the world. I also realize that I am being silly for waiting for the perfect thing to fall in my lap when I could be actively creating the things I want to achieve.So today I am shouting from the rooftops of my very first blog that I AM AN AUTHOR. I can write…really well. Not only that, but my story is important.I’m doing this.Sincerely,JaneP.S. I sincerely thank my children for teaching me every day. Sorry it takes me so long to learn sometimes. Please don’t give up on me!
And querying agents sucks donkey balls. Big ones. I’m working with an incredible editor/consultant but this process is intimidating as hell. I’ve also been toying with the idea of self-publishing, but truthfully I spend a huge amount of energy begging the Universe to send the perfect agent/advocate to my door. She will advocate her heart out for me and we will ride off into the sunset together making international book and movie deals…Time to cut to the nitty-gritty. I sheepishly present to you:MY EPIC PARENTING FAIL, or: How My Thirteen Year-old Daughter Metaphorically Kicked My Ass.Background: I’m a self-proclaimed Literature Snob. My sons are too. So is my ex-husband. And we’re all writers. While we don’t go around publicly belittling what other people read, we have certainly turned our noses up in private.Claire is the baby of the family at thirteen. She’s not a lit snob. In fact, before yesterday, I’d have said Claire isn’t really into reading. She likes watching and creating anime, especially Naruto anime. I wouldn’t even mention that she adores reading Naruto fan fiction because in all honesty it never occurred to me that fan fiction counts as reading. And we (her brothers and father and I) have never been shy about letting her know our opinion on the subject, even though none of us has ever read any fan fiction and we have nothing to base our opinions on.Nice, aren’t we?(Don’t answer that…it gets much worse).The other day Claire stayed home from school because she didn’t feel well. We were sitting next to each other on the couch in the family room, she with her laptop and I with mine. I’m working on a query when Claire casually says: “Ugh. I have writer’s block.” I smile and think it’s sweet she’s writing something. I pat her knee. “That’s okay, Poopsie. Just draw one of your Naruto characters. You’ll get unstuck.”“But I haven’t posted in a long time,” she says, “and people really like the story. I feel like I’m letting them down.”“Letting who down with what?” I ask.“My readers.”“Your what, now?”“My readers. I have readers in almost twenty different countries.”“Readers of what?”“My fan fiction.”“The Naruto fan fiction you write in your journal?”“Yeah. I post it on-line.”“Haha. Lol.” (I actually said “lol”. It’s a word now). “You’re so cute, Clairesy!”She starts reading off names of countries where her readers live.***I know some of you are shaking your heads now and thinking to yourself: Oh WOW. That is an epic parenting fail! How could she not know what her thirteen year-old daughter was doing on line? Doesn’t she monitor her?? Well…enjoy your judgment, friends. I asked myself that, too. But that’s not the parenting fail. And it isn't twenty countries. It's thirty-one.***“Claire. Are you serious?”“Yes.”“How long have you been posting?”“Since the end of July. I’ve posted five chapters.”“Show me.”“No way.”“Right now, Claire. I want to read it.”“Sorry, you don’t get to read it. You guys always make fun of me. You’ll think it’s stupid.”“I won’t, I promise.”“I said no. It’s my decision.”“It isn’t a decision, Claire. I’m your mother. It’s my responsibility to monitor what you do on the Internet.”“Then I’ll take it down, but I’m not letting you read it.”And that is when I realized I’d alienated my daughter. By judging something she loved as beneath me. Epic. FAIL.Before I left to pick sixteen year-old Aidan up from school I text my Ex. He’s in Romania on business.“Are you still up?” No answer.“I have a parenting dilemma.”My phone rings. Aaron sounds tired. “What happened?”I hate how shrill my voice sounds while I explain the situation.After he recovers from shock he says, “Okay. First, tell my why you want to read what she posted. Is it because you’re afraid of inappropriate content?”“Ugh. Not really. But I feel like a bad parent because I didn’t know she was doing it.”“I get that. But two things come to mind. First thing, you aren’t naïve that way. Look at her friends. Look at her activities. You check her cell phone and you always know where she is. That’s not what this is about.”“I know, I know. It’s just I can’t believe I…”“Second thing,” he interrupts my downward guilt-spiral, “Jane. She is just like YOU.”“I KNOW. That’s why I’m torn! Writing is so private!!"(Editor’s note: Aidan just came and asked me what I’m writing and I hid my MacBook from him because I didn’t want him to see). I know exactly how Claire feels about sharing what she’s written, especially with someone who has a history of making fun of her genre of choice.Poor Aaron. I couldn’t get my self-guilt and shame words out fast enough…like a magician pulling toxic colorful scarfs from her mouth.“Jane. Tell her you’re sorry. Don’t make this a power struggle.”I thanked him and apologized for waking him up and when Aidan got in the car I blurted, “Get this. While you and I are whining about never getting published, Claire is internationally famous.”“Excuse me?” He’s floored.“Yep.”We share a solemn stare. Both our asses have been kicked. By a thirteen year-old.When I get home, I knock on Claire’s door. “Go away.”“Clairesy. I’m so sorry for how I acted. I’m so proud of you. You are passionate about your writing and you didn’t listen to anyone who told you it was silly. You didn’t even ask for help. You wanted to put it out there and you made it happen. You inspire me. And I promise, if you ever trust me enough to let me read it I won’t judge you. I swear. I love you Poopsie.”And that was it. She didn’t open the door and I didn’t ask her to. But after dinner she brought her laptop into the family room and sat next to me on the couch again.“You can read two chapters.”I whisper a silent thank you to all the little gods.After several, “Where are you now’s?” she finally asks me to read it out loud (I’m super good at it), and GUYS. I am in AWE of my daughter. If I’m generous—to me—I will tell you her witty dialogue reminds me of my own, and her character development is on fleek. I genuinely laugh several times. I’m reading FAN FICTION about NARUTO and I LIKE IT.When I’m done with all five chapters, we read the reviews and comments together, too. I look at my daughter like the talented, determined, strong woman she is becoming, like the inspiration she is. It's humbling how close I came to never having this opportunity because of my limited view of the world. I also realize that I am being silly for waiting for the perfect thing to fall in my lap when I could be actively creating the things I want to achieve.So today I am shouting from the rooftops of my very first blog that I AM AN AUTHOR. I can write…really well. Not only that, but my story is important.I’m doing this.Sincerely,JaneP.S. I sincerely thank my children for teaching me every day. Sorry it takes me so long to learn sometimes. Please don’t give up on me!
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