In Defense of the Middle Schooler

I’ve been warned about this age all my life – the middle school age – junior high – puberty.

“They’re at that age,” adults would say about anyone between 11 and 14 years old when I was a kid. It was usually said in response to some obnoxious or undesirable behavior by these kids, like making fun of their classmates, telling inappropriate jokes, or refusing to participate in activities adults thought they should.

When I reached that age, I lived up to the criticisms. It was a tease-or-be-teased world, and I was wearing a bright red backpack with the words “My mom sells Avon” printed on the back.*

In all honesty, I could find myself on either end of the teasing spectrum on any given day.

After I became a parent, people warned me to enjoy my son being little because “that age” was right around the corner. As middle school time drew nearer, I braced myself for the attitude, the disengagement, the cruelty. 

But here’s what no one told me. This age – at least so far – is incredibly fun and fascinating to watch as a parent. There are still challenges, and certain topics of  conversations can feel a bit heavier than they used to, but overall? I am loving it. 

I love that we can (mostly) enjoy the same movies and tv shows. I love that we can equally make fun of each other’s tastes in fashion. I love watching him interact with his friends as they develop their own inside jokes and challenge each other in silly competitions.

Yes, it breaks my heart a little when my former library-loving kid tells me “I don’t really like books anymore.”

It still doesn’t keep me from stocking his shelf with everything from Big Nate to Bridge to Terabithia in hopes that maybe he’ll come back around to reading.

He has other interests now, interests that he puts his whole heart into. I never dreamed I could care so much about hockey, but here we are bonding over a Stanley Cup victory.

He still loves cooking and baking like he did when he was little, but now he’s actually good at it and requires much less supervision, while I reap the benefits of his skills. (Like father, like son. I’m a very lucky woman.)

I love that he is developing a stronger sense of himself and his own moral center, but I know my job is far from over.

I also realize that this age is still quite new to us, and things could take a turn for the worse at any moment. No one is their best self in middle school, after all. But let’s stop maligning these kids as a whole and extend a little space and grace for the mistakes they’re bound to make. 

*In case you were a fan of the tv show Cheers, yes, I was intentionally trying to reference Norm’s famous line: “It’s a dog-eat-dog world, and I’m wearing Milk Bone underwear.”

My First Book Vendor Event

I’ve gotten pretty good at pretending to be an extrovert when I’m paid to be. I’ve worked as a restaurant hostess, a newspaper reporter, and have taken notes (literally) on skills and tactics I’ve observed from people who work in sales.

So when I attended my first book sale event as a vendor, I summoned up all the charm and charisma I could and tried my best to make personal connections, just like a used car salesman. 

And yet, I still greeted one of my first potential customers with “How’re you going?” because my brain couldn’t decide between How are you? and How’s it going? in time for it to come out of my mouth.

After a little while, though, I became more comfortable and felt like I was doing a pretty good job of building a rapport with people. I even met a couple of young women who had grown up in New Orleans, had moved to Florida shortly before Hurricane Katrina, and were now living in North Carolina. Sound familiar?

“You are my people!” I said, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. 

They did not purchase a book from me. Maybe I scared them away.

Every time someone stopped at my table and started silently looking at my things (despite my cheerful greetings) I thought of my mom, the queen of selling junk to strangers. She often lamented about how garage sale visitors will come handle all of your wares and not spend a penny.

But this wasn’t garage sale stuff, this was like… my art, man!

There was one lovely woman who visited every single table and purchased something from each vendor (including me!) God bless this woman.

The only time my introversion took over was near the end. I began to pack up my things because the venue was switching from a book sale event to a poetry reading. Out of respect for the poets, I wanted to be out before they began their art. But then more people started piling in. The poetry reading organizer approached and said I could stay, but by that time was already in the process of breaking down my table, and my social battery was wearing down. So I awkwardly said OK and then walked out. By the time I had everything loaded into my car, I saw the same woman in the parking lot waving. I panicked and drove away. 

Long story short, I probably should’ve stayed longer, but I did sell a couple of books that day. It was nothing to write home about, only to blog about. 

Imagine the Possibilities

It’s nearly impossible to go anywhere on the internet without seeing political beliefs displayed like name tags. It’s becoming impossible to state an opinion without getting pigeonholed into an ideology.

With these seeming impossibilities, I’d like to remind you of what is possible:

It’s possible to agree with some political stances of a particular party and disagree with others of that very same party. 

It’s possible to vote for a candidate and not agree with everything that candidate has ever said and done.

It’s possible to support deportations for illegal immigrants and oppose some of the tactics used by immigration and customs enforcement agents.

It’s possible for a criminal to also be a victim.

It’s possible to form an opinion without waiting to see how “your side” feels about it.

It’s possible to not have a pre-established side. 

It’s possible to respectfully disagree.

It’s possible to think critically.

It’s possible to question things that don’t make sense to you. 

It’s possible to change your mind.

Tips for Spammers and Scammers

Within hours of publishing my first book, my phone rang with an offer to promote it at an upcoming literary festival. The caller informed me that “Gently Lace” caught her eye and would be a perfect fit for readers in the “New Orleens” market. 

I didn’t actually answer that call. The information was left on my voicemail, but if I had answered it, I might have told the caller that my book is titled Gentilly Lace: Tales of a New Orleans Childhood (not “Gently Lace”) and anyone who knows anything about New Orleanians knows that pronouncing the city “New Orleens” is an immediate turnoff.

More phone calls came over the next several months, each with similar pitches. So I’ve decided to offer some advice to these would be book promoters:

Tip number one: Know the correct pronunciation of what you’re claiming you want to promote.

Tip number two: Try reading at least part of the actual book and not just the cover. This will help when you try to convince the author that you found the work “compelling” or “inspirational.” You’re going to have to be more specific than that if you want me to bite.

Shortly after publishing my second book, Small Matters: a Collection of Popular Blog Posts, I wasn’t bombarded by phone calls. Now it seems email is the preferred method of choice. 

The emailers take a slightly different approach. They usually claim to be a book club of some sort and they would love for my book to be “featured” in their group. 

This brings me to tip number three: Know what a book club is. Book clubs read and discuss books. They do not need an author’s permission or personal information to read and discuss the author’s books. If you are so impressed with my work that you want to feature it on your club’s social media platform, then go right ahead. No one is stopping you. 

One advantage of reaching out by email is that you don’t have to worry about mispronouncing a book title or author’s name. However, tip number four: you should at least know which book title and author’s name you are addressing.

For example, if the name of the author’s new book is Small Matters, you may not want to offer to promote a book entitled Deferred Redemptions.

Likewise, let’s say that the author’s first name is Aileen. You may not want to begin the email with “Hello Abigail.” Although I admit it is slightly better than “Hello, great author.”

While we’re on the subject of names, there was one strategy I almost fell for. It was when I received an email from Aileen. I do get excited when I discover another Aileen who isn’t a serial killer (as far as I know).

However, it quickly became clear that the email was just as generic as the others. I was left with no desire to reply with “interested” to learn “next steps” for book promotion after reading a three paragraph email all about book promotion.

So tip number five is: Get to the point. Tell me exactly what you’re selling and what it might cost me.

Did you find these tips helpful? Are you interested in finding out more? Simply click the link below!

https://a.co/d/3VIfQJX

It will only cost you $9.99. Then you can tell me exactly what you think of my work at no additional cost!

I look forward to hearing from you. 

Yours in writing,

Aileen Ruli McCready, distinguished author.

My Target Audience

Authors, especially indie authors, are often faced with the question Who is your target audience? We are told that the correct answer cannot be “everyone.” 

We need to narrow focus, find that niche market, see who our work resonates with, so we know how and where to promote it. If you don’t do this, you’re told that the only person who will buy your book is your mom. 

I can assure you that is not the case for me. My mom is highly unlikely to read my book unless I send her a free copy. 

So, who do I write for? Myself, obviously. I write because I have to. I write to process all my thoughts and feelings.

I’ve also heard the advice that “the first draft is for the writer; the final draft is for the reader.” That’s solid advice, but what happens if I’m the kind of writer who’s so vain that I go back and read my own writing again and again for my own sick pleasure? I’m so vain, I bet I think this blog is about me. (And if you don’t get that reference, you’re definitely not my target audience.)

I say all this to say that I have published a new book: Small Matters: A Collection of Popular Blog Posts. https://a.co/d/03lwXx5

As the title suggests, it’s a collection of posts from this very blog. The term “popular” though is relative. Popular with whom? You might ask. It’s kind of like defining that “target audience.”

When I was first planning this book, I read through all my old blog posts from the last 13 years and carefully curated those that received the most attention at the time. Then I went back and edited based on my personal favorites and how they made me feel when I was writing them. Then I added a couple of other pieces that haven’t appeared in my blog just because I like them. In other words, I did it backwards. My first draft was for the reader and my final draft was for the writer. Oops. 

So who is my target audience? Well, let me just say that if you grew up in New Orleans, lived in Florida, moved to Raleigh, like to write, have a child, are a relatively new hockey fan, enjoy old TV shows, and love pug dogs, then this book is for you! 

Gentle reader, I would love it if you read all my posts and purchased all my books, but let’s face it: I am my own target audience.

Good Times

From the Gulf to the lake

Under sun we did bake

We had some good times on this boat.

From grouper to bass, 

Did we catch many? Don’t ask.

We had some good times on this boat. 

All the naps on beanbags

All the scallops we snagged

We had some good times on this boat.

It’s seen mountains and manatees,

Even monkeys in trees

We had some good times on this boat.

Down busy ramps

It backed like a champ.

We had some good times on this boat.

The boy grew up here

Learned to cast and to steer.

We had some good times on this boat.

We paid for repairs

Trailer tires, and spares

We had some good times on this boat.

Now we’re saying goodbye

But there’s no need to cry.

Yeah, we had some good times on this boat.

Just grab your flip flops. 

We’ll fish off the docks

Until we can get a new boat.

Tell Me I’m Funny

There’s a phenomenon with many women where we can’t just accept a compliment with a simple “Thank you.” I read about this a few years ago and started noticing it in myself. 

If someone says “I love your dress,” I’ll say “Thank you,” but I can’t just leave it at that. I have to add a caveat, like “I got it on sale for only $16.” Or “Don’t tell anyone, but it’s actually an old maternity dress I’ve had for 12 years. So comfy!”

Otherwise they might think that I’m the kind of person who intentionally spends time and money on my looks just waiting for someone to notice. What kind of vain and shallow human being does that?

Heaven forbid I have a visible name brand. I’ll definitely be quick to point out “It was a gift,” lest someone think I’m the kind of person who buys things just to advertise for a company that clearly doesn’t need me to.

And yet, when I see another woman dressed to the nines looking fabulous with her expensive clothing and accessories, I’m not judging her for being self-absorbed or showy. I admire her and wish I could be confident enough to put myself on display like that.

Then I realized, there is one way I put myself on display all the time. There is one area where I desperately crave external validation. There is one compliment I will gleefully accept all day, every day, without qualifiers.

You guessed it. Tell me I’m funny. 

I mean, yes I also want you to tell me I’m a good writer, but if my writing ever makes you smile, or better yet, laugh out loud? Well, if you let me know, that will put me in an instant state of euphoria that can last for days.

Yes, I am the kind of person who spends time intentionally trying to think of words that will manipulate people into feeling or reacting a certain way. This is really shameful behavior. I should be disgusted with myself. What kind of person does such a thing?

A funny person! 

Right? 

Please? 

Thank you!

Tick Tick Tick Tick…

It’s no secret that I’ve been an old lady at heart for quite some time now. A few years ago I wrote a whole blog post on how I’m turning into my grandmother. 

I’ve become a fan of saying things like “Sophia Petrillo is my spirit animal.” 

More recently, however, I fear there’s another old curmudgeon I’ve been channeling. 

I remember watching 60 Minutes with my parents when I was a kid. I thought it was a boring show with the worst theme song of all time. 

But there was that one funny old guy at the end who absurdly complained about little annoyances of the day, like the amount of cotton in medicine bottles, or owning too many watches.

So when I find myself …

…in the drugstore saying out loud, “Why would they put back pain treatments on the bottom shelf?”

…getting annoyed at every transaction that requires a QR code… 

…shouting in frustration, “Why can’t I just order Chipotle without creating an account?”

tick tick tick tick tick tick tick …

…I’m Andy Rooney. 

If I could get a Rooney-like segment on 60 minutes, I think my first topic would actually be skin care.

Why does every skincare product advertise glowing skin these days? When did that become desirable? I don’t want my skin to glow. I just don’t want acne in my forties. When I hear glowing skin I imagine a freak accident involving radiation.

“Anti-aging” is another popular buzzword. It sounds kind of like a political stance. If there’s anti-aging, then surely there must be pro-aging. I think I fall into the pro camp.

I’ve never understood the obsession with looking younger. I suppose people equate it to living longer or being healthier, but I’ve never seen an interview with a centenarian who says the secret to their longevity is a good face cream. 

I might as well match how I look on the outside with how I feel on the inside, you know, like a snarky old man. 

Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick tick…

What Were They Doing?

I was standing outside school with my mom after a long day of either kindergarten or first grade – I can’t recall which. I’m not sure why we were still there. She must’ve been talking to someone, but now the school seemed almost deserted. We finally started to walk to the car, and I told Mama I had to go to the bathroom.

“It’s kind of late,” she said. “The doors might be locked, but you can go check.”

Our car was parked right outside East Hall, the same hall that housed the kindergarten through third grade classrooms and bathrooms.

I ran into the hallway and pushed on the entrance door to the girls bathroom. It seemed heavier than usual, like someone was pushing back from the other side. I heard people talking in hushed voices, then finally the door gave way. 

I was stunned by what I saw. It was a group of older girls and boys all crowded together. They were students, but clearly too old to be East Hall students. 

“It’s a little girl!” one of the big girls yelled at the sight of me. 

All the other kids laughed. 

They towered over me in their big kid uniforms, the boys in their light blue polos and belted navy pants, and the girls, who wore skirts and blouses rather than the one-piece jumpers worn by little kids like me.

I guessed they were eighth graders, and I instantly knew I had interrupted something. I did not belong in this crowd. I turned around and ran back outside to the car where Mama was waiting for me.

“The door was locked,” I told her.

I immediately felt guilty for lying to my mother, the same mother who was fond of the saying, Tell the truth and shame the devil.

I don’t know why, but there was no way I could’ve told her the truth in that moment. I didn’t even know what I had walked in on. What were those big kids doing? Smoking cigarettes? Drinking alcohol? Something worse? And why were these older boys and girls together in the bathroom meant only for primary grade girls?

The incident had made me feel so small. The phrase “It’s a little girl!” rang in my head over and over again – not just on that day, but for years to come. 

On my first day of high school I was chatting with a girl I’d just met. 

“Do you like Blind Melon?” she asked. 

I didn’t know if this was a food, a band, or a disease, but if I revealed that I didn’t know, then my cover was blown. This isn’t a teenager, she’d think, It’s a little girl! 

It’s stupid, really. The bathroom incident was such a non-event. It should be nothing more than a vague memory. So why did I let that phrase haunt me and make me feel like an outcast?

The funny thing is that I was the only kid who did belong that day, not the big kids. I shouldn’t have backed down. I should’ve shouted, “Get out of my way. I gotta pee!”Maybe they would’ve listened. 

After all, I don’t think they were intentionally cruel. They had probably thought an adult was on the other side of the door, about to bust them for whatever nefarious activities they were up to. “It’s a little girl!” was declared to let the others know I wasn’t a threat. Their laughter was out of relief, not mockery.

I wish I could say that I learned a lesson that day about making people feel included and accepted, or at least about how to take up space and stand my ground where I belong. 

Unfortunately, it took many years of navel gazing and over analyzing all kinds of tiny little nothing moments like this one to become the mature middle aged woman writing this today. 

But by God, I still want to know what in the world those big kids were doing in that bathroom.

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Weird Like Me

“I’m downsizing,” my mother tells me as she notices me gazing upon the piles of cardboard boxes and plastic bags in her living room. It’s a familiar scene.

“Look and see if you want anything,” she says. 

I already know my answer, but I humor her. 

I recognize a seashell sculpture from my grandmother’s nightstand. It brings back memories, but I have no use for it. 

I see the plastic canvas haunted house craft I spent weeks stitching together with yarn when I was 13. I’m not surprised she still has it. I’ve noticed it here before, taunting me in its unfinished state.

“You can throw this away,” I tell her. I don’t know why she’s kept it this long.

“OK, I will,” she says, but I’m skeptical.

There are old Christmas decorations and newspapers and other things I don’t know why she’s held onto.

Then she pulls out a small box from the corner of the closet.

“Was this yours?” she asks. 

The sight of my Holly Hobby music box catches me off guard. It’s been more than twenty years since I’ve seen it and even longer since I’ve opened it. 

“How did that survive?“ I ask, incredulous not only that Hurricane Katrina didn’t destroy it, but also that I haven’t seen it since.

“It still works,” she says as she opens it and starts to wind it up. “You’ve got all kinds of little things in here.”

My inner child wants to scream. “Don’t touch my stuff! That’s private!”

“Let me see that,” I say. 

Waves of nostalgia wash over me. 

My domino bracelet!

My clown necklace!

My skeleton earrings!

“My lucky star!” I say, pulling out the pink metallic charm I found at the park sometime in the mid 1980s. This may have been the first thing I ever put in this box.

Then I see a little strip of paper, clearly from a fortune cookie. I don’t remember it but I assume it says something profound. Why else would I have kept it?

“Behind every great man stands other great men,” I read out loud. “Well, that’s kind of stupid. Why would I have kept that?”

“Gosh Aileen, I knew I was weird. I didn’t know you were that weird,” my mom says.

I laugh. 

“I’m at least throwing that away,” she says. I allow it.

I sit with the rest of my treasures. I wish I had a daughter to give this to, I think for a fleeting moment, before I quickly realize there is no way any kid would want anything to do with this pile of junk. 

I snap a few pictures so I have inspiration to write about it later. Then I close it and place it back in the corner of the closet where it belongs.