I'm Writing My Book...and I need your help!

Before I get too rambly and start babbling, can I get a moment of silence in honor of a great woman?  Nora Ephron died this week, at the age of 71.  I loved her, for so many reasons, but most of all because when I read her stuff, it wasn't like I was reading.  It was like one of my favorite hens was perched next to me, sipping from a cup of coffee (or a glass of wine) and gabbing.  She was wise, she was honest, she was so incredibly good at what she did for a living.  The world lost a wonderful voice this week.  Rest in peace, Nora.  I'd like to imagine that she's up there in heaven right now, on a cushy couch, clucking with Dorothy Parker and Erma Bombeck.  Now that's a group of hens for ya. 

Ok, now back to me.

There's a guy who went to my high school, we were in the same class (85, bitches.  That's right. 1985.).  We didn't really interact much back in the day, but thanks to Mark Zuckerberg we have become what is now known as "facebook friends".  This particular guy grew up to become a best selling author.  He wrote a book about cold-calling, and I don't pry about money but I'm pretty sure it's made him a very, very comfortable man.

Anyhoo.  So not only is he a best selling author, he's also a pretty awesome guy.  He had seen some people mention my blog on The Facebook and sent me a message, asking for a link.

This always makes me pause.  Because, although I'm not embarrassed or ashamed of what I write about (ok, there are a few things I've written that make me cringe now.  But hey, that's life.) But it's kind of like if say, you're a teacher and one day while you're sitting in the teacher's lounge, eating your Lean Cuisine, another teacher says to you, "Hey, didn't I see you dancing at that Gentleman's Club last night?".   Ok, maybe not exactly like that.  Maybe more along the lines of Peter Parker getting caught in his Spiderman suit.  What I'm trying to say, is that it's kind of awkward exposing yourself to someone who only knows you as your Public Self. 

But I sent the link.  And assured him that, if we ever met in public, I'd totally understand if he couldn't make eye contact with me.

He wrote back, and told me that he liked my writing.  Again, this makes me pause.  Now, I'm not so delusional that I fancy myself to be a Writer, like with a capital W.  I like to write.  I write what's on my mind, and with me it's pretty much what you see is what you get.  I'm not well educated, I haven't taken classes or studied writing.  But I do enjoy stringing words together in order to tell a story.  When someone compliments me on it, I get a little flustered. 

After he told me he liked my writing, he told me another thing:  He thinks I should write a book.  And then, after that, he told me something else:  He wants to help me get it written.

We met for coffee last week.  He shared with me how he got to where he is today, and gave me some invaluable advice and motivated me like I've never been motivated before.  He told me about the post he read, the post that convinced him to contact me about the whole book thing.  It was the post I wrote about getting my new-to-me Ford Focus.  I wrote about how proud of myself I was, for buying a car with cash, for finally dumping my gas-guzzling SUV.  And then I wrote about how Big Daddy pulled up into my driveway in his new car, and how I felt my pride bubble deflate.

This man, who took time out of his busy life to have coffee with little old me, looked at me and said, "I want to be there when you're buying a $40,000.00 car, and paying for it with cash."  He said some pretty funny things about comeuppance and how living well is the best revenge, and then he said that he thinks my book is pretty much already written.  It's here, in my tiny blog.  It's a story of survival, of finding the silver linings in big black thundery clouds, even if it means dissecting said cloud and peering at the remains with a magnifying glass.  I write about divorce, about adultery, about hairy legs, about how agonizingly hard it is to parent teens, about eating your feelings, about that Smug Bastard George Clooney, about sex (and not having it.  And sometimes, having it.).  Some of you like it, and my friend from high school thinks that there are more people out there like you. 

So my friend and I came up with a sort of skeleton for my book:  it's going to be short stories, blurbs, essays, whatever you want to call them.  Basically, blog posts.  We're going to tweak them here and there, but like he said, most of it is already written.

Here's where you come in.  If you have a few minutes, could you please chime in and tell me if there is a particular post in here that resonated with you.  Maybe it was a post that made you laugh, or cry, or both.  Maybe it was a post that grossed you out (meaning any post that discusses my sex life) and made you oh so grateful about that fact that you're not me. 

I'm supposed to present him with five chapters, five posts that I think best represent The Happy Hausfrau.  I have a few ideas but I'd like to hear your opinions.

Thank you in advance for whatever input you provide, even if it's to tell me that I need to get my head out of the clouds and stop dreaming.  Or that you saw me in the Taco Bell drive thru the other day.

I'm kind of excited about this.