What is a Book Coach? (And Why Should You Hire Me to Be Yours?)

When you Google “writing a book” all you get is pictures of crisp paper, coffee cups, rays of sunshine ~LOL~

When I started writing my first book, the first thing I wanted to do was get it published.

Before I even wrote it!

What will my cover look like? Which major publishing houses are going to fight over it? And who is going to play me in the Hollywood movie version?

It consumed me. And maybe that was OK.

Picturing my future as an author was exciting and I couldn’t wait to soak in all the amazing things that could come along with it. The awards, the photo-ops, meeting Tom Hanks (because he would have to play my Dad in the movie version, of course).

But before you can start planning international book tours and guest appearances on celebrity TV shows, you have to actually write the damn thing.

I know that sounds pretty self-explanatory, but you’d be surprised how shocked I was by this fact.

To give you some perspective on the condition of my manuscript at the beginning of this journey, maybe just picture a room full of nonsensical sticky notes flying around with a window open during a tornado and only one of them actually tacked down to the wall.

It was utter chaos.

And let’s not forget the fact that I started writing the thing with a bleeding brain.

Because my health situation was so dire, that actually ended up motivating me to write faster. There’s nothing like a near-death situation to really get the creative juices flowing, amiright y’all?!

I didn’t really know what I was writing, but I knew that I needed to catalog what I was going through. If nothing else, maybe my parents could read it after I died and feel a little less shit about the fact that I was dead.

After it became clear that I wasn’t going to die (#blessed), well, that’s when the publishing fantasies really took off. I wrote whenever I had downtime, which was most of the day unless I was doing physical therapy or learning how to lock and unlock my wheelchair.

I don’t know how much of the book I produced in those early hospital days. Maybe 50 typed up pages or so, which was more than I’d ever written in my life.

Writing kind of went out the window when I left the hospital. I launched myself into becoming a teacher again which left absolutely zero space in my brain to think about that “book” I’d just been writing.

In the summer I exhaled and looked into hiring an editor. I can’t really say why I thought it was remotely time for this step, but I sort of thought my work was done, and maybe somebody else could take over and fix all my typos.

I used ThumbTack to post for an editor and got a few results back for people around Denver, one who looked really promising named Carolyn.

I messaged her and right away she requested the first chapter of my manuscript. We booked an in-person meeting to go over her edits for the next week and I cut her a check.

While she did do some lovely edits on my first chapter, she also needed to give me some bad news.

Gently, as if swaddling me in a weighted blanket, Carolyn told me that my book was not ready for an editor. Her specialty was in line-edits; or detailed grammar, syntax, and sentence structure. Sure, she could perform these kinds of edits on my work moving forward, but what the book actually lacked was any real cohesion.

In short, my book was kind of shit.

Of course, she didn’t say it that way. And she really did do a nice job with the section of the book I gave her. But I knew deep down that the book wasn’t ready for a simple polish for grammar. What it needed was an entire revamp.

This is why Carolyn suggested I meet with a book coach.

What is a Book Coach?

Oh, I’m so glad you asked!

While an editor might perform more notes and feedback on the text itself, a book coach is more concerned with the overarching big picture of the book.

The “why the hell is someone actually going to read this?” type of big picture.

While they may be experts in language or copywriting, they are also sort of a spiritual guru for your story. They’re the ones not only making sure that the puzzle gets finished, but that all the bits and pieces fit together perfectly.

They might be concerned with your character development over the entire manuscript, or what themes are emerging throughout, and if those themes speak to a particular audience.

So Why Do I Need a Book Coach, Mimi?

Contrary to popular opinion, authors don’t just pop out of the womb knowing everything they want to say and precisely how to say it.

Like doing one of those tricky yoga moves, you have to actually learn from those around you and practice stretching those muscles so you don’t rip your pants wide open.

Maybe you don’t do yoga. Maybe you’re a concert pianist or something. Cool. You also had a teacher or a “coach” who helped you when you got stuck or taught you a new way of doing your fancy skill.

Like me, you might need a book coach because you are full of amazing ideas and you have no idea how to get them out of your body and into one succinct book.

You might have characters in mind for a novel, or you have bullet points scattered in a notebook somewhere about that one time you spent a month on a dairy farm in Guatemala and you discovered yourself.  

Shit, I don’t know! You might be sitting on the next binge-worthy book-turned-TV series, all in the confines of your splendid Lil’ noggin. The possibilities are endless, my friends!

OK, So Where Do I Find This Holy Book Shaman, or Whatever You Call It?

Another excellent question, you glorious vessel of insight!

Did you know that I, yes I, Mimi Hayes, am a book coach?!

How convenient is THAT, you guys?

I know I’m a complete cheeseball and everything, but I actually love working with fellow writers on their big ideas. I even enjoyed helping my high school students form full sentences back in the day and always tried to work creative writing into my history lessons.

I’ve been coaching book writing for a few years now, with clients as diverse as they come. Some of them are just looking for feedback on specific items (ie. “Is my main character likable?”) while others need help structuring their narrative which is scattered or might lack central themes to tie it all together.

So why me?

I mean why not me, you know what I’m saying?

Chances are, if you’ve gotten this far in this blog you at least like me a little bit. Or at least if you don’t, you’d never say it directly to my face (which I appreciate).

So why not trust me with helping you fine-tune your next big story?

Alright, I’m SOLD. What Does Your Book Coaching Look Like?

Wow, you are like a pro with these questions, I mean my goodness!

Like any good coach, I need to see what I’m working with here. That’s why I’ve got nifty 30-minute calls to start us out on this book-writing adventure.

During that first meeting, I’ll be asking you all about your writing goals, what you want your book to look like, and what kinds of writers inspire you. This allows me to see where you are right now in your journey, and pinpoint a path forward.

If you’re an expert yogi and I’m reviewing your completed manuscript, maybe I’ll task you with taking a crack at writing a query letter (a pitch letter for a literary agent) or a book proposal.

If you were like me back in 2014 and can barely touch your toes (literally and figuratively), I might give you a writing assignment or an opening prompt to see where your writing skills are at and help you shape some ideas.

And let me just tell you from my own experience: working with a coach…This shit really works!

When my editor rerouted me I was able to work with someone else who could look at the big picture of my book and help me find it when I didn’t know what the hell it was.

He asked me the hard questions and deeply analyzed the nature of my story. I’m not going to lie, sometimes I felt like I was in therapy (for me and the book).

He wasn’t so much interested in my surface-level humor (although he did enjoy it), but he really wanted to know why I was joking around in the first place about a near-death experience.

The feedback was always honest and our sessions helped me get to the heart of my story. After about a year working with him, I’d rewritten my book twice over and it was actually pretty damn good.

As it turned out, I was a pretty fast study. So when I called him a few years ago and said I wanted to do my own book coaching, he was thrilled!

OK, Final Thoughts on Writing a Book, Memes?

*walks to podium*

Listen, I’ll level with you. In summary, writing a book is very fucking hard.

Some authors make it look easy. I mean not me, personally, but definitely, some do make it look quite graceful. You might think writing a book is a straightforward process of copying your crystal-clear ideas onto a blank document for hours on end until ~POOF~ a book!

Yeah, I hate to break it to you. But that ain’t it.

What’s more accurate is years of groveling, writing, scrapping, drinking, returning to it and saying, “oh, hell, let’s give it another shot!” then a few more years making it look not so bad, all the while being ultimately consumed by a single idea you wrote on a sticky note 10 years ago (and now can’t seem to find) and somehow you just know in the depths of your stupid soul that this idea, yes, this idea can change the world.

And it can.

Your ideas can change the world.

You just have to be brave enough to write them down.

Holy shit, you guys. I think that’s the most profound thing I’ve ever said. Wow, I’m really impressed with myself considering the fact that I wrote “contrary to popular ONION” about an hour ago.

See? Progress, people. Progress.

OMG! I’M READY TO WRITE MY BOOK, MIMI, LET’S DO THIS!

A photo of me and my lovely book launching for all my fans for inspo ;)

I knew you’d come around and face your fears, you god damn literary legend!

Well, what are you waiting for? Me to roll out the red carpet for yuh?!

Book your 30-minute book consult with me right now!

What it Feels Like to Have a Trans Sister and a Pro-Trump Brother the Week Before the 2020 Election

It’s 4 AM and I can’t sleep.

This isn’t new, really. For the past month, it’s been nothing but odd sleep patterns. Either I’m not sleeping at all or I’m sleeping until noon.

And when it’s the latter, my mother literally comes into my bedroom and tells me to get out of the house because I’m “depressing her.”

When I lie in my bed, unable to drift into REM, I think about a lot of things.

Things I should be writing, guys I’d like to text but know I shouldn’t, but mostly: the end of the world.

The election is in one week. An election that feels so divisive, I’m not even sure how we ended up here in the first place. 24/7 I hear “us” vs. “them” and I can’t help but feel like we’re all on the brink of strangling each other on live television Hunger Games style.  

Anyway. I have some things I need to tell you.

I learned I had a Transgender sibling during my first year of teaching in Colorado–a “blue” state. It was about a year before Trump got elected.

I got home from school and went for a run around the neighborhood to clear my head from the day. There in the distance, a few blocks away from Mom and Dad’s was my then-brother approaching me.

It was weird to see my sibling looking for me. We weren’t the closest back then and they said we needed to talk.

I thought they were going to tell me they had cancer, to be honest with you.

I was relieved (and confused) to learn that they were Transgender. For the next few years, she would experiment with hormones, inherit my old make-up, and wait patiently for gender reassignment surgery.

I’d always wanted a sister. I just never thought it would happen this way.

Then there’s our little brother.

I learned that he was voting for Trump on a 27-hour road trip with him from New York back to Colorado after losing my job. I was coming off a summer of BLM protests and watching the virus wreak havoc in Brooklyn.

We must have been somewhere in Missouri when it happened.

I don’t even know what I said, but it must have been something Liberal. He disagreed with me for I think the first time in my life.

In a completely different way than with our sister, my concept of this person quaked like a bowl of Jell-O during that scene in Jurassic Park.

I knew I didn’t love my brother any less, just like I didn’t love my sister any less when she came out as a woman.

Strangely enough, I actually wanted to protect him. From the world, mostly. But also from our sister, who has become more militant in recent years with politics.

I was the last to find out about this Conservative rift in the family. The second I unpacked my last box I could feel the tension swirling around the house.

I have a Trans sister and a Pro-Trump brother just a week before the most heated election in our lifetime.

How are we going to survive this as a family?

I have always felt like the “referee” of the three of us. As kids, the two of them didn’t get along, which I hated. I didn’t want to pick sides. I just wanted us all to be friends. I participated in my fair share of sibling smack-downs, but more than anything I wanted us to be together.

Before I go any further I’d like to point out that “staying out of politics” is a privilege. I’m sorry but it’s 2020 and you can’t be Switzerland anymore. If you don’t feel like you need to have strong opinions about what’s going on right now, it’s because your life doesn’t depend on it.

I also personally hold an immense amount of privilege being a white, educated, cis-woman with a supportive family in the United States. I can vote, drive, speak my mind, and own a gun to protect myself if I want to (which I don’t).

I try my very best not to take this for granted.

With that being said, each of us possesses a unique brain with a bunch of lived experiences that ultimately shape our opinions and daily thoughts. We can change the way we think, but only by vigorously re-routing our built-in biases.

For most of us, this is a nearly impossible task. So, we take in our world and formulate some sense out of it and stick to it.

And that’s just fucking science, yo’.

I told my sister I had an interview for a job out in San Diego and she immediately told me when it was projected to be underwater if Climate Change were to continue its course. The same day my little brother went to a driving range to learn how to shoot a gun.

Sometimes I still can’t believe any of us are related.

But fundamentally, the way our country has been set up makes us choose opposing sides. Black or white. This or that. I think we are all victims of this simplistic system, in a sense.

We stake out our yards with our prospective signs and yell at anyone else who has a different sign, without even considering who that person is or where they came from. We turn our backs on our own family because we can’t understand how we think so differently.

Empathy is a lost art these days. It’s now “fashionable” to go viral by screaming the N-word at a complete stranger.

You know who’s winning this election right now? Hate.

Forces that I can’t control are tearing families like mine apart right in front of my fucking eyes. And yes, I am angry.

Look, I don’t know how to fix this.

I’m an unemployed comedian approaching 30 living with my parents during a global pandemic, OK?

But I know that my heart is splitting in two, not just for my family, but for humankind.

We are not OK, you guys.

So I want you to vote, not for a party or a person, but for yourself.

I want you to open up your heart and ask yourself some hard shit. I want you to call your siblings and tell them that you love them. I want you to rest. I want you to turn off the TV and step away from your phone and just listen to your own air enter and exit your chest.

Do not let hate win this election and do not let it win you.

~mic drop~

What I’ll Miss About New York (And What I Definitely Won’t)

Taken moments before throwing my mattress down 4 flights of stairs.

I am sitting on my Aunt’s couch in Colorado nursing a bloody nose. I haven’t been back here in nearly a year and it shows. The altitude is kicking my ass. That plus the fires are making me into a little crisp raisin of a person.

Last weekend my little brother and I threw my mattress down four flights of stairs and drove a minivan full of my shit from New York to Colorado.

27 hours, 2 days, and lots of junk food later, here I am.

I am home.

I was born and raised in Colorado. But despite its wilderness and natural wonders, I wanted a different kind of wild. I wanted a new life entirely.

So on July 6, 2017, I packed two bags and moved to New York City with no plan, no job, and some really impractical shoes. You’ve been hearing me tell this story ever since then so I’m sure you’re tired of hearing it.

The point is, I threw myself into the void and I prayed that something would catch me. In a lot of ways, I had convinced myself that I wouldn’t make it a month. Maybe not even a week if I kept wearing those stupid paper shoes!

I made it 3 years, 2 months, and 13 hours. Actually I don’t know about the hours thing I just made that one up, but you get the idea.

I left in a hurry, just like I came. I told no one and I threw everything in suitcases and trash bags and hit the road. It was all a blur and I’m positive all of you are sitting over there going, “Wait WTF, she moved out of New York?!?!”

Believe me, I’m as shocked as you are.

Due to the raging dumpster fire that is 2020, I’ve been unemployed for two months, slowly losing my mind and watching from a distance as my parents continue to one-up each other with a buffet of health issues.

I’ve been homesick and confused and boy, have I taken a lot of depression naps!

It’s impossible to say if this is an end of an era, a chapter, whatever metaphor you’d like to use to refer to my “New York Years.” All I know is that it happened and it changed me enough to write a lengthy blog post about it.

Here’s what I’ll miss…and what I won’t:

I will miss that skyline.

I will miss my friends; old and new, strange and funny and creative.

I won’t miss the fucking MTA.

I repeat. I won’t miss the fucking MTA. Not one god damn bit.

I will miss celebrity encounters (although I’m still bitter I never met Tom Hanks).

I won’t miss 4th-floor walk-ups.

I won’t miss trash castles on the sidewalk.

I will miss my roommates, Simone and Joy, the longest relationships I have managed to hold onto in my entire life.

I will miss hearing music in the distance, on the street or in a park, and looking for the source.

I will miss the rush of ACTUALLY MAKING IT BEFORE THOSE SUBWAY DOORS CLOSE I AM SUPERHUMANNNN.

I will not miss getting catcalled.

I will not miss running late to literally every place I ever tried to go.

I will miss our pizza place.

I will miss my bodega guy and his smile when he said “Hello, Mami!”

I will not miss $20 cocktails.

I will miss CVS, Duane Reade, and if I’m feeling ratchet, Rite Aid.

I will miss packed comedy clubs and really slaying it.

I will not miss not having a closet.

I will not miss having my packages stolen off my front porch.

I will miss “SHOWTIME, Everybody, SHOWTIME” unless I’m tired and this train is delayed because I really don’t want to catch a shoe to the face right now.

I will not miss the fish market on my old block that was stinky as hell.

I will miss Bacon, Egg, and Cheeses at 2 AM. Really any time. That shit is delicious.

I will miss those tiny little blue cups for coffee with the greek stuff on it.

I will miss riding a couch carousel on a rooftop drunk on Cinco de Mayo.

I will miss dog park Saturdays and getting asked which dog is my dog and looking like a psychopath who just sits in dog parks even though I don’t have a dog.

I will miss doing improv shows.

I will miss laughing at my friends coming to visit who always end up passing out on my kitchen floor in the exact same position.

I will not miss stepping in dog/human shit on a regular basis.

I will not miss paying a locksmith $150 to break open my mailbox and then finding my mail key the very next day.

I will not miss spending all day trying to acquire enough quarters to do my laundry in the basement only for the machine to break.

I will not miss shitty landlords.

I will not miss bed bugs.

I will miss finding random pieces of furniture on the sidewalk like a daily garage sale.

I will miss 75 cent bagels.

I will miss running into people I know on the street which feels statistically impossible considering everyone and their mother lives there.

I will miss discovering a hidden new restaurant.

I will miss meeting two lovely Brits on their honeymoon in a speakeasy on my birthday who later housed me during the Edinburgh Fringe Festival.

I will miss colliding with Josh Groban’s chest in a theater and yelling, “ARE YOU JOSH GROBAN?”

I will not miss being punched on the subway by a crazy lady an hour after colliding with Josh Groban’s chest.

I will not miss first and last month’s rent, double security deposits, and lying about how much money I make just to get approved for an apartment.

I will miss being a nanny to three adorable boys and only occasionally pretending to be their mother in public.

I will miss the day I got the email that I was getting published and sobbing in Grand Army Plaza and calling everybody I knew.

I will miss the mystery of the Z train.

I will not miss the smell of a homeless person sitting next to me on the subway.

I will not miss the doctor who told me I didn’t have double vision and just needed to “move my whole head to look at something.”

I will miss the perfect fall morning and grabbing a coffee on the way into the city.

I will miss brunch that I can’t afford but fuck it.

I will miss teaching a couple of dudes how to do standup comedy and watching them blossom and grow on stage.

I will not miss being asked at Thanksgiving, “So have you ever thought about auditioning for SNL?”

I will not miss that time I asked a guy to take me to a “quiet spot” for a date and he took me to a bar where a 12-piece jazz band was playing. Not his fault but still LOL.

I will miss wholesome conversations with Uber drivers that end in one of us telling the other our life story (when I’m in the mood for it).

I will not miss breaking up with someone at JFK.

I will miss the conversation that followed that breakup with a Columbian cab driver who took me out for pizza on the way home and reassured me that I would find love again.

I will not miss trying to be in public on New Year’s Eve, July 4th, or any time where everyone else is outside.

I will miss that rare moment when you get a whole subway car to yourself.

I will not miss getting kicked out of Buzzfeed for asking if I could “talk to Dan.”

I will not miss man-spreaders.

I will not miss actively trying not to make eye contact with the psychopath on the street, train, etc.

I will miss seeing the Empire State Building change colors every night.

I will not miss getting spit on but I was a white girl with tattoos living in Brooklyn so I kind of get it.

I will miss everyone saying good morning to you in Brooklyn.

I will miss Zabar’s in UWS.

I will miss Drunken Dumplings in LES.

I will miss BLM marches across the Brooklyn Bridge.

I will not miss bringer shows and whoring out 12 of my friends to pay $50 to see my comedy.

I will miss finding money on the ground when I was at my most broke. Seriously, I found so much money on the ground you would not believe.

I will not miss packing my bag like I’m going to Mordor. Snacks, sunscreen, change of clothes, water, a golf club, I mean you never know what’s gonna happen.

I will not miss my mother asking me if I’m being hit by a car every single day for 3 years when I’m just walking outside on the sidewalk which is where people walk.

I will miss sneaking an entire box of wine into a concert, getting lost in Queens, and crying in an Uber Pool with Mary. I repeat. An Uber Pool.

I will not miss sleeping on a bunk bed for 10 months with 20 strangers in a “co-living” house which was just a glorified hostel.

I will miss being on TV and feeling like a celebrity during my book launch.

I will miss storytelling shows.

I will not miss hauling Trader Joe’s home after I clearly went a little overboard.

I will miss seeing my book in the Barnes and Noble shop window in downtown Brooklyn.

I will not miss being over-stimulated every second of every day by the screeching sounds of the subway, screaming children, and the noise of the city.

I will not miss trying to not accidentally commit tax fraud because of the 20 different part-time jobs I had.

I will miss the energy of that place. Something so inexplicable I don’t know I’ll ever be able to describe it. Just this non-stop buzzing of people and things. It was almost like we all knew, deep down, that we were in the greatest city in the world.

Regrets? Oh, I don’t have any. Only that I couldn’t stay a little longer.

It wasn’t the safest of places at times, but it was mine. I liked that danger, always underneath everything I did. Was I going to get the job? Make the train? Lose my wallet? I never knew what obstacles New York would bring me each day. And that was kind of exciting.

When I arrived, I didn’t know who I was or what I wanted. I would never call myself an artist or a writer or a comedian. I had no confidence and I was desperately seeking to fill a void at the bottom of my stomach.

That void is full now. It’s brimming with crazy stories, new friendships, and once-in-a-lifetime experiences I never imagined for myself back when I first stepped foot in the Big Apple.

Sure, it took a bite out of me. Existing in that place was not at all like Meg Ryan makes it seem in You’ve Got Mail.

But all of those bad days taught me that I’m more resilient than I thought I was. And it really is true, if you can make it there, you can make it anywhere.

That place will always be with me. Like a beautiful garbage stain on my heart.

Thanks for the memories, New York. You can keep the mattress.

Love,

M

Dear White People, Listen Up

It’s baking season in our household.

A few months ago I made a batch of banana bread and my roommate Joy has been obsessed ever since. She’s taken over the baking and has perfected our recipe, sprinkling the chocolate chips carefully on top.

She makes it with love.

My baking style is a bit more reckless. I’ve been known to toss all the chocolate chips in, essentially making it more of a chocolate cake than banana bread. I lick the spoon and the bowl and sometimes a lot more batter “accidentally” finds its way into my mouth before the pan goes in the oven.

I do not pay particular attention when I bake. I read the recipe, sure, but measurements seem more like suggestions to me.

I once left the paper tags on some baking pans and almost set my apartment on fire. After hearing this story, my childhood friend took a Crock-Pot out of her Amazon cart that she was going to buy me for my birthday because she “no longer trusted me with such high-tech cookware.”

Despite my recklessness, I used to make my students brownies at the end of the year. My “Brownie Point” board kept track of good deeds and whichever student in each class had the most by the end of the year would get a whole batch of brownies. They were in high school, by the way. But boy did they want those homemade brownies!

One batch was particularly traumatic as I mistakenly bought garlic-flavored cooking oil. As you might expect, they tasted like shit.

Why am I spending so much time on this metaphor? Be patient. You’ll see.

I made a new batch but brought along the garlic-flavored brownies to my students as a joke. Like “hey look how much of a shit baker I am, try these toxic squares if you dare!”

A few of the kids tried them. And to my shock, one kid wanted to take the whole batch off my hands. We laughed. A few of us gagged. It was all fun.

When I think about baking I also think about race in America, which is much less fun to talk about.

I’m going to talk to white people for a minute. It’s fine if you’re not white and want to keep reading, but this message is particularly for my Caucasians in the crowd. So when I say “we” I am referring to white people.

Alright, let’s turn the oven to 350 degrees.

If you are a shit baker like me, you’ve probably burned a few breads, crusted a few cookies, and garlicked a few brownies. The natural response when discovering this mistake is usually “OH SHIT.” We haphazardly pull the smoking and unrecognizable items out of the oven and get really pissed off, maybe even a little sad.

Our roommates behind us shed a single chocolate chip-shaped tear.

We start going through our stages of grief:

Denial: “But I set a timer and everything!”

Anger: *throws smoking thing out the window*

Bargaining: “Maybe I can just cover it with icing and nobody will notice?”

Depression: “I should have just bought a damn cake at the store!”

Acceptance: “This is what I get for not reading the recipe closely enough. I will do better next time.”

As we are processing these stages, the oven is still fucking smoking. It’s actually caught fully on fire but we haven’t noticed whatsoever. But if we did, we would also be victimized by this fire. It might even harm us, or destroy our home.

Are you starting to get it now?

The oven caught on fire is racism in America, OK. It’s been hot this whole time, and now it’s actually bursting in flames. It’s hurting people. And we don’t even like touching the thing with oven mitts when it’s not on fire.

I’m not going to apologize here: White people, stop being so fucking fragile and put out the fire already. Step away from your burnt cookies and grab the fire extinguisher.

To be clear, fragile things do not like to be broken.

I’m still unsure why lightbulbs come in little paper sleeves with no ends, but maybe we’ll never know. White people are fragile because we must be “handled with care” as our bright red labels imply.

Unfortunately, the only way things become less fragile is for them to be broken and rebuilt with stronger material. If you are a survivor of trauma, sexual abuse, or health issues, you may have an idea of what it feels like to be broken and built again. But the fact remains: many white people are so layered in privilege that we truly have no idea what it would feel like to be a black person at the center of this fire.

Let me give you a non-baking anecdote.

A few years ago Joy and I went out in Brooklyn. We took the subway to the movie theater, filled up on popcorn, and settled in for a nice rom-com. After the movie, we thought we’d get a drink or two. We didn’t live in this area of Brooklyn so we wanted to check out a cool spot nearby. It was a Karaoke Bar.

I am a quintessential basic white girl when it comes to Karaoke Bars. It’s almost like I sniff them out or something. And once I step inside of them, it’s nearly impossible to get me to leave. I immediately put our names in a bucket to sing.

While I was doing that, Joy attempted to order us a drink. But when I got back the drinks were not there. She had a pretty good spot at the bar and the bartender was right there.

“What’s the deal?” I asked.

Joy pulled me off the bar. She’d been trying to get the bartender’s attention for over five minutes. First with eye contact, then verbally.

I kid you not, the second I rolled up, this woman looked at me and asked if I’d been helped.

Oh, yes, Joy is Kenyan.

The two of us together make an odd pair, some might say. But we joke that we are a married couple. She is as her name suggests, unbelievably joyful. We don’t always agree on dishes, but she occupies a large space in my heart.

In this crowded bar, it had not gotten past me that Joy is the only black person there. I think I even mentioned it when we came in like “Woah, gentrified much!”

I’m peeved about the bartender, that’s the word, peeved. It is a mere annoyance for me. Unbeknownst to me at the time, it has ruined Joy’s night.

We have our drink. Joy doesn’t want another one. In fact, she wants to leave as soon as is physically possible.

“But what if they call our names to sing?” I plead with her.

Again, what the hell is my deal with Karaoke Bars?

We go outside to get some air for a bit but it’s raining. Joy feels trapped and I am trapping her. We huddle up under the awning as the rain pours around us. We meet a nice tattooed white girl ironically named “Brooklyn” who is from Australia. We like her and her accent. She’s smoking a cigarette and looks cool.

I take the liberty of talking shit about the bartender. I don’t know how we arrived at the next bit, but Brooklyn tells us she’s basically never met a black person before.

I’m far too amused that her name is “Brooklyn.”

“Wait, how is that possible?” I ask.

She tells us about her small town, which I don’t remember the name of. She’s here on a student visa. Her eyes are doing something weird but I’m getting kind of drunk since all we had for dinner was popcorn.

Suddenly I hear my name being called by the DJ who has earlobes the size of coffee filters.

“JOY! OH MY GOD! THEY CALLED MY NAME! LET’S STAY. JUST ONE SONG!” I yank her away from Brooklyn and inside without waiting to hear her rebuttal. 

Inside DJ Coffee Filter starts playing Clint Eastwood by Gorillaz except it’s a very weird remix that I don’t recognize and I botch the lyrics anyway. I make Joy capture my moment on my phone.

Finally, I let us leave. We wave goodbye to Brooklyn who is still on the stoop and hop in an Uber home. Because Joy is Joy, she politely continued to joke with me about how “weird the night was.”

My privilege allows me to see it as nothing more than that. A “weird night.” Thinking back on it now, this was a missed opportunity to put my fragile self aside and to take care of someone else.

I cannot speak to what I do not know, but I can put out the fucking fire.

Our shock as white people at the death of George Floyd is honestly an insult. Like I said before, this has been going on forever. I taught my students about Emmett Till, the 14-year old black boy lynched in Mississippi after a white woman accused him of flirting with her in 1955. I did not have time to teach them about the countless others that lost their lives for being black at the hands of white people like me. I don’t even think I could teach that if I had an entire school year at my disposal. There are just too many.

It’s uncomfortable. And I’m asking you to get over it. Black people are tired of waiting around for us whites to deal with our own shit.

Look, I’m not here to shame you or make you feel bad. I’m not accusing you of being a member of the Ku Klux Klan, OK. But it’s time. Time for us to sit in our uncomfortability and have the hard conversations so that actual change can occur.

Does rioting make you uncomfortable? Ask yourself why.

Does black anger make you uncomfortable? Ask yourself why.

In what ways have you seen racism? Did you speak out against it?

And for god sake do not make a black person walk you through this process, please god. They are so tired, you guys. They are so tired.

Once you’ve had these reckonings with yourself (and please do so quickly, remember that the fucking house is on fire), it’s time to do the work. Here is what you, a white person, can do to fight racism:

1.      Get on Google and do some research. What are the local laws in place for the police department nearest to you? Are they required to wear body cams? Are they trained in de-escalation training? Find out. Write to your city or town government. Their info is really easy to find.

2.      Like social media? Try sharing something! Share and retweet stories of racial injustice, protestor heroism, or just the work of black people you admire.

3.      Consume art, books, and music by black people. Also, there are many books about racism that can help educate you and have the tough conversations with yourself. Untamed by Glennon Doyle has a great chapter on racism.

4.      Sign petitions.

5.      Donate your money.

6.      Do some more research.

7.      Listen.

8.      Take notes.

9.      Sit in yourself for a while and resist the urge to squirm away.

10.  Don’t get defensive. You’re not the one on fire.

I thought about continuing this list, but seriously, just Google something and you will find it. The internet is fascinating that way. You’re going to have to do this on your own.

But I believe in you.

Now go and get the fire extinguisher.

Your Fellow White Person,

Mimi

101 Things I Love About Myself: Valentine's Day Edition

Ah, Valentine’s Day…the one day a year when you get to enjoy watching hoards of hopeless men scouring the picked-over aisles of CVS for the perfect way to say “I love you…and I probably don’t say that enough, in fact, I can’t remember the last time I did -oh, God, PLEASE DON’T DUMP ME, OH PLEASE WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T LEAVE ME FOR THAT YOUNGER AND LESS BALDING MAN IN YOUR YOGA CLASS.”

I really relish in this day. And sure, maybe it’s a little selfish, but I can’t help but savor watching grown men lug life-size teddy bears and cartoonish bouquets into the subway.

Pictured: A poor schmuck on Valentine’s Day in his natural habitat, frantically signing a Hallmark card using a pen from the register.

I used to be jealous of stuff like that. How dare I not have a Valentine on this completely ridiculous made-up day of consumerist love!

It took me a long time to really understand the root of that Valentine’s Day-fueled rage. Did I want a man to shower me in cheesy gifts that he just had to punch a guy over at the grocery store…I mean I guess so???

We’re so vain, we probably think this blog is about us.

In truth, I wasn’t upset that I was single on February 14th each year. I was upset that I didn’t have love in my life. And as far as I was concerned, the only way for that to happen was for another party to be involved.

Boyfriend. Boo-Thing. Babe. Bae. Sugar, do, do, do, do, do, do, ah, Honey, Honey…

The concept that love is for “couples only” is only slightly more ridiculous than, oh, I don’t know, a gigantic teddy bear holding a box of chocolate tap dancing at your doorstep.

Not only is this idea outdated, but it’s also just not true.

I’m not a scientist or anything, but I’ve spent the better part of the last five years studying myself. The thoughts I have, my little weird habits, all the tiny ways that make me, me. I guess this kind of makes me sound like a sociopath, but you get the idea.

And yes, I’ve done this all alone.

Now when I say “alone” I need you to step off and I mean that in the nicest way.

Because for some reason whenever I say I am “alone” some voice from the crowd (actually many) jump out and scream, “DON’T WORRY YOU HAVE PLENTY OF TIME TO FIND A MAN.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Being alone is not a bad thing. It is not a death sentence. I actually like it. And I don’t need you to attach my worth as a human to whether or not somebody else decides they want to be in a relationship with me, OKAY.

I’ll get off my soapbox now, but before we move forward in this blog I need you all to reassess the ways in which society tries to trick us into thinking we are worthless if we are alone. Dove commercials and Hershey’s chocolates would have you believe that you need someone else (a.k.a. not you) to show you how much you are worth and did we mention that M&Ms are half price today if you also buy this piñata shaped like two puppies kissing each other?!?!!

It’s rubbish and honestly have you ever even Googled “history of Valentine’s Day?”

Lol wait are you breaking up with me with a Valentine’s Day card???

According to history.com where I’ve spent the past hour of my life, there are a lot of wacky theories out there as to why V-Day started in the first place.

Some think it started as a celebration of the death of St. Valentine, an equally mysterious fella who might have gotten himself murdered for smuggling Christians out of Roman prisons. Others think he was marrying young lovers in secret after Emperor Claudius II outlawed marriage in an attempt to make better (and less distracted) soldiers.

And others site the day as having originated from a Roman festival where priests went around town in the middle of February, sacrificed some goats and dogs (for SHAME), dipped the hide in blood, then walked around the neighborhood slapping women and crops with the bloody hide because obviously this is the best-known method to bring fertility to all the land.

I know you didn’t ask for that history lesson, but at least now you can shame your significant other for giving you chocolate when they should have clearly slapped you with a bloody piece of goat hide. DO YOU EVEN LOVE ME, STEVEN.

OK, OK, enough is enough. You get the point. Don’t hate on Valentine’s Day just because you’re single and society told you to. Just love you! Here are 101 reasons why I love myself without the help of anybody else or an aisle of discounted chocolates. Enjoy!

How precious am I???

1.      I ate an entire package of Proscuitto while writing this blog post.

2.      I really love history even though I can’t remember where I put my laundry card.

3.      One time I went to Scotland in a giant brain costume and performed a one-woman show in a warehouse to like 2 people.

4.      I have really cute tiny feet that sometimes get stuck places cuz they are so smol.

5.      I absolutely lose my shit at every single dog I see, make eye contact, greet them, and try to convince them to leave their owner so we can run away together to the South of France.

Potential Male Suitor: Wanna go out?

Me: Sorry, I’m busy…

6.    I’m so funny.

7.      I relearned how to walk, see, and do 3rd-grade math problems in two weeks.

8.      I am a really good teacher even though I sometimes/always bump into desks and rip my pants wide open.

9.      I talk in my sleep, sometimes having full conversations with people who may or may not be in the room.

10.  When I become friends with someone, I love the shit out of them.

11.  I am known to make sound effects when doing just about everything.

12.  I will try to sell you a Passion Planner.

13.  Sometimes I dance when nobody is looking but also when everyone is.

14.  I wrote a book and it’s really fucking good.

15.  I am a fantastic listener.

16.  I have cool tattoos (and some silly ones).

17.  I cry whenever I need to and usually in public places.

18.  I am an absolute monster when I am hungry and/or tired.

19.  I don’t really have much of a filter anymore so sometimes I just say whatever the fuck comes out of my mouth. Like this BLOOP BING BONG ZOOPDY DOOO!

20.  I’m a hat person.

21.  I look cute with short and long hair.

22.  I have a dimple the size of Kentucky on the right side of my face.

23.  My parents are amazing role models and taught me the importance of hard work, kindness, and being authentic.

24.  I don’t tan and that’s fine.

25.  I have freckles on my shoulders and arms.

26.  My favorite food is mac and cheese because I am actually four years old.

27.  I used to play ice hockey and I was really good at it but only managed to play 20 whole minutes during my college season.

28.  My hair has it’s own zip code.

29.  I have the mind of a squirrel. 

30.  Because I almost died, I have a much deeper appreciation for life having been given a second chance.

31.  I’m a shit liar.

32.  I don’t have to wear a lot of makeup to look pretty but when I put on red lipstick WOO-DOGGY!

33.  I love old black and white films.

34.  I find shit off the street, like rusty cabinets and record players, and make them into furniture.

35.  Speaking of furniture. I BUILT AN IKEA BED OUT OF KITCHEN CABINETS WITH MY BARE HANDS.

36.  Sometimes I just walk around craft stores for fun.

37.  I have a sweet, sweet podcasting voice.

38.  I am always down to try new things.

39.  I am constantly reading 12 books at one time and never finishing any of them.

40.  I acknowledge that 101 things is kind of a lot but I will for sure finish this list.

41.  I know the difference between “you’re” and “your.”

42.  If you share a bathroom with me I’ll clean my hair out of the drain 97% of the time.

43.  I go nuts for office supplies. Especially binder clips.

44.  I am a natural storyteller and can captivate any audience.

45.  When I was in 2nd grade I mailed a letter to Rosa Parks.

46.  I run into my doorframe every single morning.

47.  I have literally the best friends in the whole world.

48.  I never throw away cards that people send me.

49.  I’ve never been addicted to drugs unless you count coffee.

50.  I like to draw cute little cartoon versions of myself and leave them around any surface I can find for my friends and coworkers.

51.  I’ve been rejected for a TED Talk three times but I keep trying.

52.  I cuddle up with my mom and binge serial killer documentaries and also Outlander.

53.  My legs are athletic despite losing a shit-ton of muscle mass and having to gain it all back.

54.  I have a quirky sense of style and my favorite outfits are mostly from thrift stores.

55.  It takes a lot to really piss me off or make me yell.

56.  I hide things from myself which is honestly kind of annoying but also like a miniature scavenger hunt.

57.  I have great taste in music.

58.  I am slowly but surely having a better taste in men.

59.  I’d rather stay in than go to the club.

60.  I’m actually a really great singer.

61.  I’m extremely functional considering my clinical depression, anxiety, and mild medically-triggered PTSD.

62.  I can find laughter in truly unfunny situations.

63.  When I was a kid I used to change outfits like 30 times a day.

64.  I fucking love Free Willy.

65.  Even though I have a potty mouth I never curse around little kids.

66.  I own a typewriter that I bought on Craigslist from a woman named Marge.

67.  I’m not that great at guitar but that doesn’t stop me from playing.

68.  I have the craziest stories and they are all true!

69.  I inspire people around me to be more creative and authentic.

70.  I’m not afraid to travel by myself.

71.  I actually don’t age. Seriously. I’m 97 years old.

72.  I’m pretty, but like in a 1942-keep-my-crumpled-photo-in-your-helmet-while-you-fight-Nazis sort of way.

73.  I take unusual pride in having had access to opioids post-brain surgery and somehow managing to not get addicted to them.

74.  I have actually said, “Hi! Would you like a sticker with a picture of my face on it?” to multiple strangers.

75.  I’m great with kids, teens, babies, teens who act like babies, and pre-pubescent 14-year-old boys who want to start improv clubs after school.

76.  I’m outrageously bad at accents.

77.  If I go on more than like three dates with you I’ll probably bake you banana bread.

78.  I turn into a sack of goo when people play with my hair.

79.  I’m an annoyingly hard worker.

80.  Exhibit A: I probably won’t go to bed until I finish this list because I’m just that fucking stubborn.

81.  I give high-fives, hugs, and back rubs.

82.  I’ve been known to have rap battles in clubs when I’m really drunk.

83.  I’m not flexible. Like at all.

84.  My eyes are purdy.

85.  I like taking long walks.

86.  Every Saturday I run 3.4 miles to the dog park and sit and watch the dogs while eating an almond croissant and drinking a matcha latte. I don’t even have a dog.

87.  I’m from Colorado, the coolest state ever!

88.  I sleep curled up in a tiny ball.

89.  I had the cutest classroom as a teacher (until my students ripped all my shit off the walls).

90.  I am getting so excited to be getting to the end of this list! I LOVE MAKING LISTS.

91.  I’m more sentimental than people realize.

92.  I’m not kidding I really want to be a carpenter when I’m like 60.

93.  Sometimes I buy myself pretty flowers just because.

94.  When I get home from work I immediately get into my comfy jams.

95.  The scar on the back of my neck is cute AF.

96.  I will always text you back unless I write the response in my head instead of out loud.

97.  I know how to change a tire.

98.  I packed two suitcases and a manuscript and moved to New York City by myself and I have yet to be hit by a taxi, declare bankruptcy, or stabbed (did get punched though!) on the subway.

99. I GET SO EXCITED BY MAGIC TRICKS.

100. I’m not a morning person but you’ll have a good time watching me try to maintain consciousness by whatever means necessary.

101. I am truly, unconditionally in LOVE with everything that is me and I could not be more excited to show myself all the love and kindness (and OK FINE, chocolate) that I truly deserve, not just today, but every single day for the rest of my life.

I could keep going. Truly, I could. There are so many hidden things I love about being me, myself, and I that it could probably fill twelve more books (who smells a new memoir idea!!!)

I won’t kid you. This is not easy work.

The things I’ve hated about myself have filled an even stronger hold of my psyche for my entire life and I’d be lying if I said they would all just go away with a single (but very good) blog post.

That’s not how this works. Rome wasn’t built in a day, you guys.

Self-love, the real, holy-shit-I-can’t-believe-I-get-to-wake-up-every-day-and-be-ME kind of self-love is fucking hard. For some people, this behavior has never been modeled for us in the first place, or worse, it’s ridiculed or mocked.

Self-love is not selfish. It is imperative, essential, and a fucking requirement if you intend on loving others.

It takes looking in the mirror every day, every hour, every minute, and choosing mercy. Choosing loving words instead of criticism, kindness instead of cruelty, and trust instead of fear.

Hey, you. Yes, you in that reflection over there. I love you.