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!

11 Inconvenient Truths About Being an Author to Brighten Your Holiday

“Dear God-Thing, please send me a nice royalty check and some New York Times buzz…”

“Oh dang it, Mimi. Can’t you blog about something happy just once?”

Now, now, five of you reading this but mostly my mother, calm down.

I know this headline might have you believe that I’m about to throw a pity party for myself with a big ol’ sad piñata, but that’s not the case. I don’t even have the kind of confetti needed for that sort of thing, OK MOM.

Really I’m just here to process, as always, the strange and challenging parts of my life on a page that I will upload to the internet so that everybody else can look at it and not me. Because that’s how this whole thing works, mmkay? Which leads me to…

Truth #1) You are going to fixate on all the weird shit in your head until you put it on paper (or in my case, word doc).

It’s not an exact science, but authors are really just creative lunatics hidden under a bunch of trench coats and fancy detective pipes.

We have one million ideas a day (not unlike the everyday person), except our thoughts become full-blown screenplays, memoirs, and novellas. It’s exhausting, if you ask me, which you didn’t, but anyway.

When an author truly relieves themselves on the page it’s like inhaling a really good candle, or peeing after you’ve been holding it in for a whole day.

If this sounds like a lot to process then…

Truth #2) You better get yourself some damn therapy.

I went to therapy one time. OK a few times. It was in 2016 at the start of my second year of teaching and I was in a particularly tough spiral downward after a breakup. I remember going in the first visit and having to answer these questions on a little electronic block about how much alcohol I drank and if I was attempting to jump in front of a bus anytime soon.

I kind of felt like therapy was something other people did. Messed up people. But sure enough the second I sat on “the couch” I burst into tears about approximately one billion things that were flying around in my broken head.

I told the nice lady about my book that wasn’t really a book yet and that I was really traumatized still by being in a classroom and by the time I left for New York City I don’t even think we skimmed the surface of all my B.S.

And that’s OK. Because someday I’m going to have a grown up job with grown up healthcare and that will be the very first thing on my list of awesome grown up things to accomplish.

Truth #3) You are going to bankrupt yourself on your first book release.

The images you had of swimming in bathtubs of all the money you’re about to make from your best-seller turned Hollywood blockbuster can stay safely tucked inside that delusional brain of yours because that’s just not gonna happen.

In fact, you will be spending your own money, and a lot of it. So much so that you will have to start a GoFundMe page* and frantically bother every single person you know to donate to your extravagant book launch party.

Did you really need that mac and cheese food truck? Yuh know what, no, you did not. But nobody gets mad at a bride for picking a three-story wedding cake shaped like the statue of David, OK?

You enjoyed the fuck out of those three bites of mac and cheese that you inhaled in between signing 100 books back to back to back to back…

*Thanks again everyone who donated! I thought about sending each one of you individualized thank you cards but then I got really overwhelmed and didn’t….so THANKS!

Truth #4) You are now a salesperson.

Surprised? Oh yes, I bet you are. Skills you don’t really possess, like convincing someone to purchase an intimate story about your life, will now be entirely necessary if you plan on selling any books at all.

Frustrating? Completely.

Me: “Hey there! Would you like to look at this story I wrote about my miraculous recovery from a traumatic brain injury?”

Lady: “Oh, that’s nice. I was kind of looking for a cookbook though.” *walks away*

What am I gonna do? Follow her around the damn Barnes and Noble and continue to shove my little blue-green cover in her face? That’s just not my vibe, yo.

It was the vibe, however, of the other author I was sharing the signing with on the opposite side of the store. He’d shout “WHO’S YOUR FAVORITE AUTHOR?” and point his finger at his book aggressively until that person walked toward him, which I guess is one way to go about annoying the shit out of everyone you meet. To his disappointment, three of my friends walked through that entrance and immediately said “MIMI HAYES.” He pointed sadly to the other side of the store, “She’s over there…”

He may have been the more aggressive salesperson. But I have friends. Speaking of which…

Truth #5) Your friends and family won’t leave you Amazon Reviews.

Now I know about nine of you are like, “HEY I LEFT YOU A REVIEW” and I am so happy that you love me on that level. But the truth is, even your closest friends (and even your Mom!) might not get around to that glowing 5-star review in time for you to not lose your shit every time you refresh your Amazon page.

Why do reviews matter? Well, if you’re me, your book is about something very personal and traumatic that you oddly chose to share with the entire world with an accessible bookstore or WiFi connection. This means that every time you see a nice paragraph about your work, your art, you feel so happy and full that you could die in that moment and be totally OK with that.

The inverse is also true because when you don’t get reviews, especially from your friends, you interpret that as your friends not caring, which you know isn’t true but it still stings your mushy human organs. “I can’t believe they don’t even bother, it’s a paragraph, how hard can it be?!” Well, time for a reality check tootsie roll because…

Truth #6) Your book is not the most important thing in the world.

I know, I know. This is a hard pill to swallow, you literary genius! Just because you spent four whole years hiding in dark corners of coffee shops and scribbling chapter headings on note cards and tacking them all over your apartment like a literal sociopath, doesn’t mean anyone else is going to give a damn.

Now that’s not to say your mother won’t call you a, AND I QUOTE, “powerhouse” over the phone on multiple occasions.

That’s not to say your best friend won’t follow you around at your book signing and snap candids of you penning your John Hancock all over a stranger’s book.

But you must understand that this is your life. And everyone else has their own life which probably doesn’t include you pretty much most of the time.

You are allowed to be proud of your work and it feels really great when others express that too, but sit down, stay humble, Kiddo.

Truth #7) Your publicist is (probably) dead.

Contrary to what the movies may have lead you to believe, publicists are not snatching at the back of your ratty coattails looking for every opportunity along the way for you to make it big. In fact you’re not entirely sure what your publicist’s name is because they only emailed you that one time over a year ago and you kind of haven’t heard from them since.

[ooOOoOOo sPoOkY]

Truth #8) Everything you get, you will work for.

Due to Truth #7, you’re going to have to work extra hard to get any attention for your book. You will call up magazine editors, cold-email conventions to speak at, and haul a suitcase of your own books to a signing at a Barnes and Noble that you asked for and nearly didn’t get because the other author was booked months before and they didn’t order your books in time.

You are going to appear on local TV channels and interview with international radio stations not because of someone else, but because of you.

Truth #9) Everyone is going to underestimate you.

If you got paid in the amount of times people asked you if you’re self-published you’d be a god damn millionaire by now.

This isn’t to say that self-publishing is shameful. It’s actually probably way easier to navigate than traditional publishing. But the assumption underneath “you’re self-published, right?” is that surely you couldn’t have a legitimate publisher, because that’s incredibly hard to do.

Everyone thinks it’s cool that you wrote a book, but few people will piece together the fact that you built everything you’re standing on.

It won’t be until you fill a gallery full of your closest friends and family during your launch that people will start voicing their surprise at your work ethic and commitment to finding the best mac and cheese food truck in the Denver Metro.

“Wow, I had no idea,” they’ll say as you squiggle your name on their book nonchalantly like you didn’t just sell your first unborn child for that food truck back there.

As annoying as this can be, especially while you’re putting in all the backbreaking work to an audience of none, this will actually play out in your favor down the line as you become a walking cliché underdog narrative.  

Truth #10) You are going to lose friends in the process.

Somewhere down the line of writing your first book, you’re going to start a separate file called “Acknowledgements” thanking all your friends and family for supporting you during this whole grueling ordeal. You’ll list as many people as your editor will allow and include exactly how those people helped you get this stupid word document made into a full-blown book.

After the book comes out, you’re going to notice that a few of your friends in that very word document are not responding to your text messages and phone calls anymore, which makes you the saddest schmuck ever.

You’ll text them some more, leave a slew of teary voicemails, and eventually write and publish a whole think-piece about one said ex-friend which she will probably never see anyway but at least you let some shit off your chest for a second until the next friend inexplicably dips out of your life.

The good news is, the ones that stick around are fucking awesome and will never stop supporting your crazy ass no matter what you do.

Truth #11) Even though being author feels like being on a roller coaster with a broken off-switch most days, you wouldn’t choose any other job in the world.

Why 11 Truths? Because 11 is an extremely frustrating number.

And you’ve closed your eyes at 11:11 PM and wished for Michael McToddferson, (or whoever the hell you’re obsessing about at the current moment) to kiss you for no damn reason in math class tomorrow too many times with zero positive outcomes to have any respect for the number eleven.

But more importantly…

On days when you’re knee deep in a sticky chapter rewrite or hammering your head against a wall because you can’t seem to focus on a single manuscript for more than five minutes at a time, you’ll flash back to that little windowless classroom.

You’ll see a fleeting image of you crying in the teacher’s lounge in between classes or stepping in the world’s largest wad of gum while simultaneously slamming your toe on the corner of a desk and you’ll think, “I’m so glad I’m not back there.”

Because even in your darkest days, you are capable of transferring your woes into words. And those words matter. Maybe not to everyone. But they matter. And so do you.

So quit refreshing that damn Amazon page, you psychopath, and finish your next book already!

How I Really Feel the Day My Book Comes Out

Friends: “OKAY EVERYONE MAKE JAZZ HANDS!”

If you would have asked me four years ago on this day where I saw myself today I think I would have told you I’d be happily kicking it with Rosa Parks and Gilda Radner “on the other side” munching on some fancy cheese dips and trading gossip about which dead celebs were hitting on us at the pearly gates of heaven.  

My head was pretty screwed up by that point and I was making all kinds of dark jokes.

I had also just started doing something to distract me from all the brain bleeding nonsense.

I had just started writing a book.

Exactly four years ago I was sitting on my parent’s couch plopping my busted fingers down on a fresh word document.

“This sentence took me five minutes to write” were the very first words I wrote.

It actually took me longer than that because I could only use one hand.

Is it fate that this book would get published exactly four years later?

I don’t know about fate, okay. And *SPOILER ALERT* if I’m being completely honest with you that same sentence got cut from the final copy. But I’ll tell you this much, I never expected any of this to happen.

I never expected to be getting an email from a publisher on Sept 25, 2017 asking to publish my manuscript.

I wasn’t planning on delegating a cover design or hiring an attorney to negotiate contract terms.

I didn’t anticipate seeing actual ratings for my book posted online by people I’ve never met before.

And I definitely didn’t think a box of books could make me cry.

The truth is, I started writing a book because I thought I was dying. And I thought maybe I should start saying something important before I couldn’t say anything at all. Behind the LOLs and selfies of me at my keyboard typing away there was real, unfiltered fear.

This could be it. This could be the last thing you ever say.

Part of me was really upset that I wasn’t Anne Frank. That I wasn’t a pure and radiant soul documenting life-shattering thoughts on the page. I’m just some brain damaged chick sitting here watching Netflix waiting to die, I thought.

This was not a fun idea to entertain.

So I sat there on September 18, 2014 and began typing with my right hand. I got a few more sentences down, mostly about how I thought I was dying and that I thought it was really funny and weird to be writing a book in such a condition. I finished a page or two and then took a break to watch six straight episodes of How I Met Your Mother.

I think the next day might have been similar. Get up, take brain pills, eat food I can’t taste, write book, Netflix, nap, Netflix, nap, friend takes me on a walk, Netflix, bed.

I started writing a book because honestly what else was I doing?

When I thought about note-worthy dramas in movies and TV, the dying person always gets to go do something they’ve always wanted to do. They get to see a sunset in Italy or eat some exotic food or do something reckless and bad-ass on a rooftop or some shit.

Nope. Not me. I’m just gonna sit here and watch Barney tell us for the millionth time that it’s going to be legen….WAIT FOR IT…DARY.

What’s legendary about not showering for a whole week and finding Cheese Doodles in your hair?

I started writing a book because I was depressed and sad and thought I was dying and needed therapy.

Not what you expected? Yeah, I know. Me neither.

I guess it’s not our fault. I think society pushes the idea that authors are poised, literary robots who recite quotes from The Classics and spend hours in dimly lit cafes channeling their genius into every word, sentence, and paragraph.

Yeah, what a load of shit right there.

I mean maybe that’s the case for one or two of us. The few and far between; the privileged authors who have plenty of therapy and quiet space and money to create said genius works.

I hated writing in college. I was a History major so I had to write a lot of 20-page dissertations on feminism during WWII and all I could gather was that I was really bad at it.

“Write more academically.”

“Stop using puns.”

“Quit dropping the F-Bomb.”

 It never occurred to me then that it was the beginning of the end for me. And I’m not talking about the whole brain bleeding thing anymore, but that it was the beginning of what would become a never-ending need to write.

An itch that I would forever need to scratch.

I continued writing a book because it felt good. It felt good to release what I think was probably better suited for a therapist’s couch but came out on a page in the privacy of my computer screen instead.

I began saying whatever I wanted and whatever I felt. I typed with that one hand every chance I got (when I wasn’t watching Netflix, that is).

All of my emotions and dark contemplation’s about death and heartbreak just kind of oozed out of me. Kind of like the blood in my brain. I couldn’t control it. I wrote about a guy possibly dying next to me in the ICU, finding a catheter in my you-know-where, and temporarily having the vision of somebody on some seriously dope LSD.

And also like my brain I really needed to clean it up.

By the time I healed up and got back into the classroom I’d written about half of a manuscript. Approximately 40,000 words of utter nonsense about being really scared that my last meal was about to be a frozen burrito.

The fear continued to sit on my chest throughout student teaching, where I learned just how hard teaching would become for me with my newly patched-up brain.

Grading and lesson planning replaced book writing for a while. I could use my left hand again, but it was busy typing out emails to parents about So-And-So smacking another kid with a ruler in 4th period.

I took a two-week long nap after my first school year and then dusted off my word document and began again. This sentence is going to take me five years to publish at this rate, I thought as I reviewed the utter shitshow-condition of my manuscript.

And you know what, it pretty much did.

I spent the next three years rewriting and rereading my trauma.

And honestly, it was really fucking painful.

Just picture the worst moments of your life and analyzing them from every emotional angle for four whole years. Sounds fun right?! Wrong.

But like I said. I couldn’t go back. My body was extracting toxins into paper and I was just a slave to it after a certain point. Grade papers, teach, grade, nap, write, grade, nap, write, teach, eat a cube of cheese to keep from passing out.

It was the new normal.

And I need you to know that it was not glamorous.

Today and probably in the foreseeable future, you’re going to see a lot of pictures of me and other people holding my beautiful book, beaming with joy.

And that joy is real.

It’s the realest thing I’ve ever felt. So when I tell you that I cried in my rental car last night when this song came on the radio you kind of get where I’m coming from.

It’s very fun having people surround you with something you created. I imagine it’s how new moms must feel when everybody circles around and coo’s at you and your beautiful baby.

But it’s also scary. It’s scary that this thing I created out of fear of dying is now alive and well and in the hands of any Joe Blow who happens to see it on a bookshelf.

It’s terrifying that my alternative to therapy is now in the hands of my mother, my father, and probably a few curious guys I dated long ago before any of this existed.

How am I really feeling the day my first book comes out?

A lot of things.

Pride. Excitement. Fear. Uncertainty. Shock. Probably a couple of emotions that won’t be discovered by scientists until 2025.

I don’t know if these emotions will ever wear off. Not fully anyway. It’s a very strange experience when your conversations shift from “how are you doing in New York?” to “Wow, that thing you said on page 17 nearly made me piss my pants.”

My Auntie said she cried at a chapter that I didn’t even know could make someone cry.

It occurs to me now that I was pretty stealthy about the whole being terrified of dying thing. To the point that even the people closest to me are coming to me now with some very big emotional reactions to my I-really-should-have-been-in-therapy memoir.

To my credit, I was in therapy. Just of a different kind. Learning how to walk again seemed a bit more of a priority than my bottled up emotions at the time.

But here I am, sitting on my parents couch yet again letting some of those emotions leak out onto the page. It’s not perfect. It’s sometimes scattered and messy and painful. But it’s a necessary thing I do now because, again, I really should be in therapy.

Don’t worry about me though, really.

I’ve got great friends. My family is rock solid. I live in the coolest city in the world.

As the cover of my book would say, I’ll be OK.

I’ll be better than OK, actually, I’ll be fucking fantastic.

Feel free to congratulate me, pat me on the back, and take selfies with my book.

I hope you buy it, read it, and enjoy it.

I hope you laugh and I also hope you have a box of tissues at the ready.

I hope that some brain-injured chick out there on her parent’s couch finds it, reads it, and feels a little less alone.

And more than anything, I hope that I continue to chase this dream no matter what happens.

Now go out there* and get your copy!

Had to have high, high hopes for a living
Shooting for the stars when I couldn't make a killing
Didn't have a dime but I always had a vision
Always had high, high hopes
Had to have high, high hopes for a living
Didn't know how but I always had a feeling
I was gonna be that one in a million
Always had high, high hopes

*Check out major bookstores first! If they don’t carry it, feel free to ask them to order or visit Amazon or my site over at Animal Media Group here!

All My Friends Are Getting Married and Having Kids...I'm Launching a Book Instead

*Disclaimer: This is NOT a piece about marriage or having children or any statement of judgment on either of these two things. If you’re my friend I’ve probably been in your wedding, held your child, or both. I love doing this for you. Please continue to let me be a part of these beautiful life milestones in whichever ways you see fit.*

Phew, glad we got that out of the way.

Now let’s get into this shit.

In the summer of 2014, I went to a friend’s wedding up in the mountains of Colorado and spent the entire time hiding my sobs underneath burlap table runners and behind adorable photobooth props.

It was snowing. In May. And she looked fucking beautiful shivering in the snow in her little cowboy boots.

But no, I wasn’t crying about that.

I wasn’t emotional because I trekked through the snow in my high heels to get to the barn or because I watched the groom cry tears of joy when he saw her walk down the aisle.

I was crying because I knew this shit would never happen to me.

At least not with the guy sitting next to me that I’d been Fake-gaged to for nearly five years (that’s ‘fake’ and ‘engaged’ if you were wondering).

Me: *gets distracted for 30 minutes* Sorry...got distracted by all the wedding porn on Pinterest...

This rustic and Pinterest-perfect barn wedding was not in the cards for me then.

Neither was the garden palace entrance another friend made that same year. Or the magnificent old school church setup yet another friend had the year after that.

I’ve been going to weddings non-stop since I graduated college four years ago.

I’ve seen seven-layered dips, champagne fountains, and cakes made out of maple-bacon donuts.

I’m the real life 27 Dresses except I’ve gotten smart and have recycled a few so as to not burn a hole in my non-existent wallet.

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I fucking love weddings.

And while I sometimes gripe about shelling out cash for airfare, attire, and gifts, the fact of the matter is I’m stoked for this bottomless mimosa situation you’ve got going on here, my friend.

But more than the fun, I rather enjoy watching my friends be happy.

Weird. I know.

The painful part was knowing that I wasn’t happy like that.

I hid it well during the festivities, shying away from the “how are you?” questions and answering instead with, “OH MY GOD THIS IS MY FAVORITE SONG LET’S BOOGY” and sprinting to the dance floor with the 5-year-old cousin of the bride.

I didn’t want the looks of pity. Or the well-intentioned but weird commentary about my joke of a dating life.

“Oh, you’re into online dating, how…adventurous…” they laughed uncomfortably as they held hands with their significant others or patted their pregnant bellies. I imagined them having a discussion about how worried about me they were later as they brushed their teeth together.

Because that’s what you do when you’re married right, you like brush your teeth at the same time, shit I don’t know I’m not married.

For a while, I was sulky and obsessed. I thought married people my age could go suck a big fat one. I’d never say that to any of their lovely faces, obviously. But they had no idea about my single person pain.

I hated that I felt this surge of anger every time a good friend of mine “bit the dust,” but I couldn’t shake it. Especially after my big breakup left me feeling like I’d been so close to that mountain barn party only for it to go up in epic flames at the last second.

I pictured my poor guests running for their minivans from the explosion as I sat in my tarnished gown, alone because my betrothed got trampled to death by the horses in the stables, using my broken heel to roast the marshmallows from my all-you-can-eat smores buffet.

In reality, I was miles and miles from being emotionally equipt for something like marriage.

And kids? Ah, shit don’t even get me started on how un-ready I was to birth a small human out of my you-know-where (I still am by the way).

So here we are in 2018.

I’m 26. I have a health insurance plan that I don’t know how to use. Single in every sense of the word. No kids although I take care of other people’s children. With a book on the way and all saddled up for the most life-changing year of my life.

Did I mention I’m single with no kids? Have we covered that?

And guess what.

That’s fucking okay. That’s more than okay. That’s the best news I’ve heard since He Who Must Not Be Named began his stupid orange dictatorship.

I did not always believe this.

It’s taken me years to come to terms with who I actually am, and also who I’m becoming now. I’m not there yet. There are a lot of things I want to get done in my personal and professional life. I want to get better with money. I’d like to lose ten pounds or so. Get a pug puppy. I want my Ted Talk to go viral and my book(s) to become best sellers which will land my delicious, athletic booty on Ellen’s awesome white couch.

And I’ve got time, Y'all.

Holy shit I have so much time.

And I’m not really talking about marriage or kids anymore, although there’s time for that too. The time I’m speaking of is the amount of hours, days, months, and years that I have in this life to love myself and what I’m doing. Time to make an imprint, no matter how small. Just a tiny speck of a scratch on this earth’s surface that proved that I was here and that I mattered.

And even if nobody sees it ̶ even if a bunch of fucking aliens pass by that lil’ speck like it’s nothing when they colonize our asses and blow this shit sky high ̶ at least I will have known that I was there.

So at the end of the day all this bullshit about some 30-year-old deadline to accomplish these life “milestones” like getting married, having kids, or having a 401-K and a stable 9 to 5?

It’s exactly what I just said. It’s bullshit.

Hopefully, you read my disclaimer, or you’re probably real mad at me right now. Maybe you’re mad because you have these things and you think I resent you (Nah, I don’t). Or you’re mad because you don’t, but desperately want them for yourself (it’s cool if yuh do).

And maybe you should be mad.

Be mad that society pushes us to care about stupid garbage values like “not dying alone.”

You know what I wanna do when I’m croaking on the side of some toilet and all my vital organs are shutting down causing me to shit my own pants and cry so loudly I might actually wake the dead (that I’m about to join)?

Be by my fucking self.

Jesus, I don’t want my family or loved ones to see me like that are you kidding me?!

Don’t you hear how ridiculous that sounds?

So onto the main attraction of this blog post.

What life changing event am I preparing for this year?

Oh, you know already! My book is coming out! HOLY SHIT I KNOW RIGHT.

So what does one do with such an epic life accomplishment?

Have a big ol’ party! With the donut cakes and champagne towers and everything!

Yes, you’re invited. And aren’t you all stoked that I don’t care who you bring as a +1? Bring your grandma, your dog, your second cousin three times removed, IDGAF! The more the merrier!

BECAUSE I’M GETTING MARRIED (TO MYSELF) AND HAVING A (BOOK) BABY!

And just like my friends out there in suburbia, I’ll be taking on a lot of new responsibilities and expenses to prepare for my big day. I’ve got linens to pick out, book jackets to design for my little one, and food truck vendors to call.

I’ve got to come up with hotel plans for other people’s in-laws, prepare thank you speeches, and I will most likely spend way too much money on my dress, hair, and nails because this is my special day and you can’t put a price on happiness (yes you can it’s approximately several thousand dollars that I don’t have).

I’ve got my hands quite full.

Literally. I’ll probably be hauling 300-odd copies of my book from some warehouse to the launch party to distribute to you, my fine-ass audience.

But damn I’m going to look and feel like a million bucks up there. I’m going to have my moment in the sun and errybody’s gonna wanna have sex with me.

I’m not gonna lie, it’s not what I expected.

It’s better.

Nothing against weddings, baby showers, and the “standard” trajectory. I’m just doing things differently right now. By myself. Which is how I like it.

But I’m never really alone, am I? Because I have YOU.

Yes, you reading this right now because I probably tagged you in this and you’re like oh my god seriously quit blowing up my newsfeed with your blog posts I have better shit to do.

And I’m going to need YOUR help!

Because it turns out getting married to your dreams and birthing a book baby can get pretty expensive. There’s the venue, invitations, marketing, food, decorations, and flights back and forth once I plan on touring the U.S. for comedy shows and book signings.

It’s starting to add up, Y'all!

Which is why I’ve started a GoFundMe page and opened up a separate bank account solely for my big day and making it the best it can be.

I know you’re going to buy the book. And that makes me so happy! I’m going to enjoy that 10¢ royalty check from you so freaking much (Yes, you read that right! Welcome to my fancy author salary! Hollywood here I come! Step aside, Peasants!).

But in the meantime, I’d really appreciate it if you threw a couple dollars into my GoFundMe campaign. If you were planning on getting a Starbucks this morning, just keep walking past that twelve-armed Sea Lady and put those $5 toward your ol’ pal Memes chasing her dreams instead.

It would mean the world to me.

And if you send me your address I will hand write you a thank you card.

I just picked up like a thousand from Target. They’re cute AF.

I’m thrilled to go to all of your weddings, graduations, live-water-birthings, and your kid’s pre-pre-K coronation ceremonies. And I’m so glad to be a part of all of your stories, no matter how small my presence may be in your day to day life.

Thank you for reading and being my friend (and donating!)

Stay tuned for my book launch updates in Denver and New York City and the release of my memoir, “I’ll Be OK, It’s Just a Hole in My Head” coming to bookstores near you this September!

Click here if you'd like to pre-order my book and click here if you'd like to contribute to my GoFundMe campaign. 

*clink*

Today Is A Day That Will Live In Infamy

“Today is a day that will live in infamy.” -FDR

On this* day in 1941, Japanese kamikaze planes filled the sky over the U.S. Navy base in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, dropping bombs all over the damn place and officially bringing the United States into World War II.

On this day in 2016, I might have been teaching on this very subject to a room full of rowdy, adorable, and you’re-really-testing-my-damn-patience 16-year-olds.

My memory alludes me, so I can’t remember my pacing guide exactly (and honestly looking back at my lesson plans tends to bring back a tiny surge of PTSD…Post-Teacher Stress Disorder), but I’m pretty sure I’d be on WWII by now.

Today, as I sit in my laundry-ridden room in my coliving house in Brooklyn (aka NOT a commune) sipping on tea and spilling cereal on my lap, I’m planning out the day in my head:

Finish this blog post, go to the coffee shop for my interview for the coffee shop, stay at coffee shop and write out my set for tonight, quietly practice set to myself and try not to speak too loudly or draw attention to the fact that I look like I’m talking to myself, write a few hundred words of one of my incomplete manuscripts, maybe the novel but probably just another to-do list, go to comedy show, slay comedy show, hopefully book another show by the end of the night because I slayed, come home, post this blog*, fall asleep while swiping left on Tinder because I’m bored and tired and maybe there’s a guy cool enough for me out there but probably not.

Oh, well. I’m too busy being awesome anyway to make room for a boyfran. #iaintneednoman

The truth is, today really will live in infamy. Because today is the day I start calling myself an author.

Okay, okay, okay. Let’s back up a second.

An author? Capital A-U-T-H-O-R, Author? Wow, that word sounds weird when you spell it out and say it a bunch of times, try it: authorauthorauthorauthorauthor.

Yes, the secret’s out, everybody. It’s true. Mimi Hayes is an author now.

I know you’re like, “pfff whatever, you’ve only been writing for a few years and you get some book deal and now you’re an author?! AS IF.”

Actually, I know you’re not saying that because that’s a really rude trash-human thing to say.

Actually, you’re probably being really nice to me. Because you supported me this whole time and didn’t laugh me out of the coffee shop the first time I told you I was writing a book and trying to become an author.

But let’s back up again. I never had any intent or desire to become an author.

That’s actually the very LAST profession I ever considered. And like I said, I never considered it.

Up until today, I've done a variety of jobs: barista, camp counselor, nanny, teacher, college football team videographer and equipment manager, barista again, improv instructor, watering the neighbor’s plants when they were away, that one time I worked at a Bubble Tea place for 3 days.

And I really wasn’t any of these things. Not truly.

Teaching, well that’s kind of in my bloodstream. It’s like some family gene, we’re all teachers and we all put on our special teacher voices at parties when people can’t settle the fuck down. That doesn’t really count.

I’m talking about who I am.

On online dating profiles, to strangers on airplanes, and at the bottom of my email signature, I tell people who I am.

I am an author.

Getting a book published helped (validate me), but it did not make me an author.

I became an author the minute my best friend Shannon told me on a very sad walk around the block that I had a story inside of me that others might benefit to hear. I didn’t really believe it, but I went home that night anyway, opened a blank word document, and began typing:

“Writing this sentence took five minutes. Or is it 5 minutes? I’m not a writer, how am I supposed to know? I’m not entirely sure if you are supposed to single or double space after every sentence. Geaz, I hope I don’t have to go back and double space all this when I’m done. Google is my go-to source for grammar tips. Is anyone still reading this? It will get better…I promise? But in all seriousness, typing this paragraph is a Christmas miracle in more ways than one. In two ways, actually.”

Those were legitimately the very first words I wrote in my first memoir. It really did take me five minutes because my head was bleeding and my fingers typed slow AF. Isn’t that adorable? This is awful! So awful, you guys. I mean like cute, but like when a kid is practicing an instrument for the first time, like awwwww this is painful!

I even denied my own existence: “I’m not a writer…”

My, my, my, how the tables have turned.

It’s almost like I was trying to talk myself OUT of being an author. Like I knew I was getting into something that had the capacity to change my whole life, I just wasn’t sure if I was really ready for it.

I wasn’t by the way.

I’m still not.

Somewhere in the first few months of writing this book my dear friend Kristen Jorden (hay gurl) told me she was writing a book too, and that she’d been looking for publication like since I was born, which made me extremely jealous of her but also love her as my friend and mentor even more.

We decided to play a game.

When someone got a rejection letter from a publisher or an agent (or in person from a certain meanie pants author who shall remain nameless *COUGH COUGH RHYMES WITH SHBLEEVE SHMALMOND*), we’d owe that person one dollar in a piggy bank. Once one of us got published, the other would buy us dinner using the rejection piggy bank. 

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K-Dawg was definitely in the lead, sending out her work with confidence and getting rejections back like it was no big deal. I think I owe her about a thousand dollars right now. That's like five really nice steak dinners (here we are above at my publication dinner, which was fancy french fondue) 

“This agent said they didn’t like the beginning, this publisher only takes science fiction it turns out, this one…” it went on and on. She was (and is) a rock star.

And I was pretty lame.

Now don’t worry, I’m about to get less lame in a second here. But I was pretty lame back then.

“Back then” when I was trashing myself on a blank word document and simultaneously allowing 16-year-olds to make me cry in the teacher’s lounge after school. I was a teacher. Authoring was just something I did at random increments of stolen creativity and time spent sitting with Kristen in coffee shops wondering if I could muster enough energy to write a lesson plan much less a book that people would buy if they saw it on a shelf.  

People always used to tell me that being a teacher was a noble profession. But people used to also talk to me like I had cancer.

"Wow, the bravery."

"Oh, I could never be a teacher."

"Bless your heart."

"I had no idea, oh, I am so sorry."

"Let me pour you some more wine."

Noble? Fuck that, I don’t want to be noble. You know who’s noble? Spartan war generals. And I’m pretty sure they’re like all dead right now.

Don’t get me wrong, I really loved teaching.

And more importantly, I love my kids. Notice how that’s not past tense. I can still love them even if I’m not locked in a windowless classroom with them anymore. I can still impact their lives as an author, probably even more so.

Hey there past students of mine reading this, y’all want some required reading?! Don’t worry, this will be on the test. The YOU’RE AWESOME AT LIFE test.

What you call yourself is really important, whether you realize it or not.

It’s taken me several years to own up to being an author, an artist, and a comedian.

What do I do during the daytime, you ask? I take care of small children.

Not mine, obviously.

I push strollers and make popsicle stick crafts and try not to laugh every time the two-year-old calls animal crackers “animal fuckers.” It’s putting some money in my pocket for the time being, as do other small jobs I do like freelance write about how to winterize plumbing and being a house mom for the big house I live in that is not a commune.

But what am I?

I am an author.

I write words on pages not because I chose this life for myself, but because my damn brain won’t shut off until I do. I write about what I know and what I think I know and then I come to the conclusion that I know absolutely nothing.

When I tell people what I am now, they don’t treat me like I have cancer.

They actually treat me like I’m a fancy celebrity.

More guys want to go on dates with me now because they hear I have a book coming out and they “want a chance before I get big” (their words, not mine).

I don’t really know how to feel about this quasi-attention right now, other than it’s nicer than when people treat you like they can see the knives sticking out of your heart from all the dreams you’ve let die by being a high school teacher instead of the author you really are.

Being an author is not easy, people.

Like any profession or state of being, it comes with its ultimate highs and crashing lows. It’s a lot of years of bleeding on a page, asking yourself the hard questions, and restraining yourself from setting the whole book on fire when you get stuck or discouraged but likely both.

Writing a book is like running a marathon that you haven't trained for, that you may have not even wanted to do in the first place because your friends signed you up for it, and you're in a heavy spacesuit, and you can't even tell where the finish line is because it doesn't really exist and did I mention you have a spacesuit on like what the fuck is that about that's heavy as fuck like are you okay in there can you breathe, would you like some water-OH, SORRY. Your book has been rejected by an agent for the millionth time because you don't have enough Twitter followers so NO WATER FOR YOU, SPACEPERSON.

Writing a book that is a memoir is like pointing a high-definition mirror at yourself and being like, "oh shit, is that really me in there? Oh, God, that's DISGUSTING. Nope. I'm not doing this. Don't like this mirror, put it away. I can't put it away because this is my life? Break the mirror. BREAK THIS FUCKING MIRROR THIS WAS A HORRIBLE IDEA WHO EVEN AM I ANYMORE." 

Don’t even get me started on how much money and time I’ve poured into this whole being an author business. Not to mention the gallons of coffee I’ve consumed in the process.

But alas, I have no choice. This is who I am now.

I am an author. And I fucking love it.

*Editor's note: This post was originally drafted on December 7th, for all you History nerds that think I messed up the date of Pearl Harbor. Nah, I just got home at 3 a.m. last night from my comedy show and didn't post this until today.