Sheryl Sorrentino

When I discovered my passion for writing three years ago, I foolishly thought I could stop practicing law and reinvent myself as an author. Perhaps that might be possible someday, when I retire, but for now, my life is a non-stop, exhausting merry-go-round that typically begins at 3:00 a.m. and doesn’t end until I collapse from fatigue at 8:30 each night while spending quality time in front of the television with my daughter. (And yes, quality time can be had in front of the T.V. Where else can a mom share some laughs, take catty potshots at popular culture icons and make piercing observations about others’ bad behavior with an otherwise aloof eleven-year-old?)

 

I went away for the long President’s Day weekend all by my lonesome. My weekend began with joyful anticipation: I planned to hunker down and spend three glorious days immersed in my third manuscript, The Floater (which, for perhaps the fourth time, I thought was “done,” but on further reading—and preliminary feedback from friends—I realized was not). But this post is not about The Floater; I will leave that for another day. This blog concerns the challenges of leading a double life: One eked out in the wee morning hours; the other lived in the punishing light of each workday. One whose pleasures rob me of slumber while the rest of the world snoozes; the other whose demands deplete my remaining energy in a never-ending cycle of client deadlines and billable hours.

Unfortunately, I had not only my latest creation to look forward to this past weekend, but also several pesky, long-overdue paperwork chores and a “big-box” retail lease due Tuesday morning for a major client. The hours melted away as I read and revised The Floater, then re-read, re-edited, emailed friends for feedback and input. By Sunday night, I hadn’t finished any of the other tasks I had set out to complete, but my manuscript was coming into ever-sharper focus like a Polaroid snapshot (remember those?). By the time Monday afternoon rolled around, I still hadn’t started reviewing the lease. Where had all my time gone? I began feeling stressed, tight, and anxiety-ridden. The contrast in my energy was palpable: Whereas my creative hard work had engaged and energized me throughout an entire weekend, the prospect of reading a fifty-page lease left me feeling numb. But I had a commitment to fulfill, so I forced myself to shift gears and focus on the tediously-boring-but-lucrative work.

I am not complaining. To the contrary, I know I’ve got it made. My “real” job pays well enough that I can single-handedly support my family in relatively few work hours compared to most. It affords me the flexibility of working from home, and, while not terribly fulfilling, the work itself is often fast-paced and sometimes intellectually stimulating. My writing “career,” on the other hand, pays next to nothing. If I am lucky, I earn enough in a month to take my daughter to the movies (without springing for popcorn). Dr. Esquire continues practicing law out of necessity while the fugitive—Sheryl Sorrentino the author—labors tirelessly under cover of darkness.

“Follow your passion and the money will follow?” What naive flake came up with that? For me, a more accurate edict is this: “Submit to the harsh realities of capitalism; commit a few remaining hours to the pursuit of passion; and be grateful if you're lucky enough to have both these things in your life.”

If you think your manuscript’s finished, it probably isn’t. How do we know when we’ve hit that literary “sweet spot” when we deem our work “perfect”? We can’t. We only think we can. Perfection isn’t ours to judge—that call gets made by friends, agents, and ultimately (hopefully!) readers.
 

If we hit our mark, we may have a hit. This is perhaps (but not always) the sign of a great writer. But if we don’t, then we’re simply not as wonderful as we’d like to think we are. It is cruel, but true. The hardest thing we writers must do is to weigh ourselves on the brutal scales that size up our work as either shoddy or pristine. This is why agents get to chuck our offerings back at us so callously, as though tossing a stray Spaldeen that erroneously crossed their path on the sidewalk. They can instantly tell the difference between professional and amateur, even if we wannabes can’t see this about ourselves. You’re either in their league, or you ain’t. Harsh words, but true.

Then there’s the matter of story. Personally, for me, great writing trumps a great story every time. It is the foundation underpinning all else—the plot, the story line, the characters. If a yarn captivates me, a scarf can have just about any pattern or shape. But if the fiber is tawdry or lackluster, the finished piece won’t win me over, no matter how skillful the stitching. The story is an author’s to do with what he or she likes. I didn’t care for the ending of T.C. Boyle’s The Tortilla Curtain, for example, but that did not change the fact that, in my opinion, this is a fabulous book, flawlessly crafted and totally engrossing. I did not especially love Thrity Umrigar’s narrative focus in The World We Found—I wanted her to take me to America so I could witness Armaiti’s final days! But as the writer, it is her prerogative to take me, the reader, on the journey she wants. The fact that I would have preferred to turn left where she turned right did not detract from the scenic splendor of our shared ride. Why not? Because Ms. Umrigar’s writing is utterly exquisite.

I realize that others may beg to differ—especially agents. Look at the Harry Potter series. Great stories, unexciting prose (again, just my opinion). We’ve got several elusive marks we writers must hit: Compelling (if not likeable) characters; story themes with broad appeal. We even have to look hot on the cover flap! I’m sorry, just give me good writing, any day. Humans have been telling their tales since prehistoric souls drew paintings on cave walls. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all been done before—there isn’t much new in the way of stories or characters. To me, the art form is the writing. The spark a skilled author can ignite in readers’ hearts with his or her singular voice—that is what is unique and special.

So, is my third manuscript (The Floater) ready yet? I should say not! It’s a long, hard road to picture perfect. You’ll tell me when I've arrived, not the other way around.

It took my dad dying for me to finally wake up, get dressed, and drag my authentic self to life’s big party. I know that might sound like a terrible thing to say, but it’s true. In dealing with my shock and anger over my father’s lifelong secrets, I discovered my own passion for writing. I had spent my entire adulthood feeling ashamed and guilty about my admittedly foolish childhood missteps when the most momentous relationship in my life had been based on hypocrisy and lies. This irony is what prompted me to write “Later With Myself: The Misadventures of Millie Moskowitz.” (It was either that, or head straight back to therapy, and in the midst of the Great Recession, I simply couldn’t afford more time on the couch.)

I freely admit that writing “Later With Myself” began as a therapeutic endeavor. I’d always wanted to write a novel about my atypical childhood, and in particular about how I became pregnant at age twelve. But I couldn’t do it while my father was alive. I’d always told myself I didn’t want to disrespect or embarrass him in such a public way, but the truth is, I was scared of invoking his wrath. Even after my project got under way and my characters sprang to life, I wondered if my dad had the power to drive me insane from the grave. I thought I was losing my mind—I felt driven, compelled, relentless. The voices in my head would not shut up. They were unnerving, distracting, and maddening.

Now I see that this is simply part of the writing process. I have experienced the same sense of utter engagement with the characters I created in each of my two subsequent manuscripts—by far more fictitious than Lee and Franny, but no less captivating. The only difference is, I have learned to channel their intensity. Now, I jot notes and snippets of dialogue in a dedicated book throughout the day. I don’t allow thoughts, images, and voices to derail me. This exercise in self-discipline has taught me to stay focused, whether it be on writing in the wee morning hours, or practicing law throughout the workday.

My father’s death gave me permission to clear some dusty cobwebs from my psyche and chisel away at the layers of ice coating my heart. Thus freed from my self-imposed emotional prison, I can “show up” to life like never before. There is nothing like clarity of purpose to part the heavens. Ironically, it is precisely that energy that caused not just my writing, but my law practice, to take off in unimaginable ways. I have found myself growing and moving ahead in exactly the direction I needed to, but couldn’t pinpoint, just a few years ago while I floundered in a sea of grief and puzzlement over my father’s life and death.

It has taken me nearly fifty years to realize that Sheryl Sorrentino (not my real name) is an important part of who I am. It’s time to stop hiding and introduce her to the world. I may never find an agent, land a publishing deal, or even get noticed, but I can unearth my unique, individual voice. I hope it speaks to readers as it has spoken to me.

 

If you’ve read both my novels, you already know that An Unexpected Exile is a very different type of read than Later With Myself. LWM is raw and intense; it will make you squirm. LWM has its funny moments for sure, but its emotional impact comes from my having written such a highly personal story in the first person voice. In fact, a few readers have told me it is so personal, they couldn’t make it past the Prologue.

 
An Unexpected Exile was my attempt to lighten things up a bit. It offers readers intelligent “comic relief” after my very exhausting and soul-wrenching experience writing LWM.  But because of this, I realize that AUE will not pack the same emotional “punch” as LWM. It’s not supposed to.

AUE will make you laugh out loud while forcing you to take an honest look at the stupid things we women sometimes do when pursuing our most indisputably implicit female goals: Love and Marriage. As you read AUE, you’re supposed to ask yourself these questions:  “How strong is my own need for adoration? What price am I willing to pay for an elusive marriage proposal? How comfortable am I, really, with my own sexuality?” What AUE boils down to is this: If society does not afford us women the same (nonjudgmental) right to sexual expression as men, how will we ever know the difference between lust and love?

And yes, there are subthemes worth mentioning, too—the power of language, for example, and the unassailability of Americans’ self-professed supremacy in the Western hemisphere and the world, particularly in matters of culture and capitalism.  But these are just the sprinkles—the ice cream is the sex. Much as I hate to paraphrase George Bush (Sr. or Jr.), “It’s the sex, stupid.”

In conclusion, what both my novels have in common is that they each tell darkly humorous stories while tackling taboo themes that are important to women. Of course, I am still trying to find my niche as a writer. But I already know this much: I don’t want to be pigeonholed into crafting essentially the same story over and over again with only slight variations (as so many popular and successful writers do). As one of my favorite authors, Thrity Umrigar, said at a recent book reading, “I want my books to stand for something.”  I hope that Later With Myself and An Unexpected Exile each does precisely that, albeit in very different ways.

It’s never gonna be all good, all at once.

Yesterday, after trying and failing for years to make my own, home-made pie crust, I decided to give it another shot. My husband had come home from the store empty-handed, the last of the frozen pie crusts having been snapped up by other, better-organized Thanksgiving shoppers. But he still wanted pie. So miracle of miracles, I found an easy recipe in a magazine and, with the help of my food processor, produced a decent crust. But, sadly, the filling didn’t turn out so great. Despite having a foolproof apple pie recipe, I decided to try my hand at pumpkin this year. I had freezer bags full of fresh pumpkin at the ready, so why not?

I knew as soon as I took my first bite that I had swung and missed:

Hubby: “Did you put enough sugar in this?”

Daughter: “I don’t like the texture. The crust came out better than the inside.”

Hmmm. The pie experience taught me something about my life: One thing works, something else doesn’t. If my finances are in order, then my weight is creeping up on me. If my health-and-fitness regimen is bringing me good results, then there’s conflict in my marriage. If my book is selling, then work is too slow. You get the idea. It’s like juggling—at best, two balls will rise in the air, but one must always remain in hand. It simply is not possible to keep all three balls aloft at once. So from now on, I’m going to try to be grateful for the fact that I have any balls to play with at all.

As for my pie, next time, I’ll stick to apple. And maybe I won’t push my luck with the homemade crust. (After all, you need to make two of those for apple pie.)

            I admit it: I am a food addict. Which is no different than being a drug addict, alcoholic, or any other type of addict—other than the fact that people don’t understand it. They think I am being silly when I refuse to go to such-and-such party or restaurant because I’ve painstakingly worked out my food plan for that day, and the holiday potluck or all-you-can-eat buffet does not fit within my goal.

            While some people don’t put much thought or effort into staying trim and fit, for me, it is a daily exercise that requires time, effort and vigilance. I plan low-fat meals in advance, log my daily food intake on a computer program, and run 4-1/2 miles five mornings a week (when I am not lifting weights or doing yoga). Since I am not one of those people who can wake up in the morning and simply eat what she fancies that day, I must use my only effective tool against the constant lure of food, which is to make a daily diet and exercise plan, and then stick to it.

            My husband and daughter think I am an obsessive health nut, but my efforts have paid off. After being overweight my entire life, in my forties I finally managed to lose 40-plus pounds and maintain that weight loss for the past several years. Still, temptation abounds: Impromptu lunch invitations from friends and clients; bowls of Halloween candy on desks and store counters; the irresistible Two-for-One special at the local donut shop. Even in my own home, I must stare down my husband and daughter while they indulge in desserts of ice cream and cookies.

            Fortunately, I have discovered the joy of writing. Writing has helped enormously in my effort to manage my weight. After all, one cannot munch mindlessly on potato chips while typing on a computer. But more significantly, I now realize that years of consuming too much food soothed and distracted me from deeper issues surrounding a troubled childhood. Writing is a wonderful way to process my observations and clear my emotional pipeline each day; it nurtures and fills me to the brim like no food ever could. Gorging may feel good for a minute, but smothering my thoughts and feelings with excess calories extinguishes my creative spark. And even the richest, most delicious food cannot compete with the joy of hearing someone say that my writing has moved them, or simply made them laugh.

            I don’t know that I’ll ever truly overcome my food addiction, but I am committed to consciously keeping it in check with dogged tenacity, daily mindfulness, and writing. Overeating is ultimately a soul-depleting pastime, whereas writing is an artistic and joyful endeavor. Besides, eating too much and carrying around extra weight threatens my health and well-being, and preserving the blessing of good health is my Number One priority. After all, I’ve got a wonderful husband and beautiful daughter to consider. I intend to stick around and nag them about their eating habits for a very long time.

The other day, my brother asked me what I was doing, writing and publishing “Later With Myself.” Although he hasn’t actually read the book, he saw this website and my amazon product page, and commented that, from what he had seen, the book appeared to be largely autobiographical. He asked me whether this was some sort of catharsis for me.

 

I thought a lot about his question, because I have been asking myself the same thing for months. Pretty much anyone who has bought a copy of my book knows that—the childhood parts at least—are fairly autobiographical. Admittedly, there is a large dose of speculation about what went on behind the scenes in my parents’ lives and brains, and some of the plot lines are therefore fictional, but most of what I depict in the story as having happened to Millie actually did happen to me.

I had embarked on writing this book as a novel, under a pseudonym, in order to protect my privacy and keep my own skeletons safely hidden away in the closet. But, in marketing my book and reaching out to readers, it quickly became apparent that this approach was not going to work. For one thing, I don’t think my brain is twisted enough to invent a story like this out of whole cloth, and I didn’t want anyone thinking that it was. For another, although I am still not entirely comfortable talking about the scandalous things I did as a young girl, I strive to be an authentic person, above all else. So, if I am going to ask people to spend their time and money to read my story, I think I owe them the courtesy and respect of not going about it in a deceptive way.

As a parent, I now understand that children are like sponges. They may not know exactly what is going on in the adult world around them, but they absorb everything nonetheless, and act out accordingly. I think girls, in particular, are especially sensitive to the messages they are sent each day about their sexuality and their worth (or lack thereof) as human beings. When I learned a few years ago that my father and his girlfriend had an illegitimate son who was born weeks—if not days—before my mother conceived me, when I found out that my father had lost that son to leukemia at age 17, I finally had a context within which to evaluate my own outrageous childhood behavior. I don’t know whether anything my father did or didn’t do justifies my actions—I suppose you readers will be the judge of that. What I do know is, learning the full extent of my father’s personal tragedies and failures finally gave me the permission I needed to write my story—something I’d wanted to do my entire life, but would never dare attempt while my father was alive.

So, to answer my brother's question, I am making lemonade out of lemons. I've got a great story to tell—bittersweet and painful to be sure, but "ironic/comic/tragic"—to quote one of my reviewers. So I've decided to give it back to the world. I hope you will enjoy it.  

If you are interested enough in this fledgling writer to read my blog posts, you are to be rewarded with my candid-yet-taboo disclosure of my pitiful-but-promising sales numbers to date. After a bit of arm-twisting (ahem, encouragement), my initial readers have posted their glowing reviews on amazon.com. Despite the fact that I solicited these reviews, I nonetheless believe them to be heartfelt and honest. After all, I might be able to coax a few reviews from friends (and even a client!) with the strategic application of guilt, but I cannot put such laudatory words into other people's mouths.

Getting people to buy a self-published book is like pulling teeth. And hawking my work has been a humbling experience. But I get it: I am asking a lot. Most people simply aren't that interested. Even if they are a little curious about the story I have written, they have to plunk down $20 (plus shipping) to take a 50-50 chance on either enjoying my work, or having wasted money only to be put in the awkward position of not liking it. To add insult to injury, I am asking for a few hours of your precious time to actually read 406 printed pages to find out! 

So I cannot sufficiently commend (or thank) those 40 people who have actually done all of the above to support me. Each sale, every single review and encouraging email, has made this journey worthwhile. If everyone could experience the high a writer feels when her work has moved someone, or simply made them laugh, the drug dealers would all go out of business. They haven't discovered a substance as heady and addictive as that.

I will continue hoping that Later With Myself sells 500 copies (or even 5,000. Heck, if I'm going to delude myself--ahem, dream, why not do it in a big way?). And in the meantime, my profuse and deepest thanks go to those who have actually bought my book and read it. And to those of you who have given me positive feedback, you have my undying gratitude.

The other day, one of my dear friends (and long-suffering reader of my manuscripts) characterized An Unexpected Exile as "Chick Lit." I immediately felt insulted. After all, isn't "Chick Lit" nothing more than inane, fluffy entertainment for airhead women with little or no intelligence?

So I did a little more research on the genre, and it seems that "Chick Lit," as a sub-genre of women's fiction, can deal with some very serious subjects. The characteristic features of "Chick Lit" are (1) a humorous slant, and (2) a (usually) twenty- or thirty-something female character who (often, but not always) works in the fashion industry and (frequently) enjoys shopping. Well, that about nails Risa, doesn't it?

As a character-study of modern female weakness, An Unexpected Exile probably would qualify as "Chick Lit." But I hope that, in addition to being a quick and entertaining read, it is thoughtful and intelligently presented. More importantly, if it helps women (and men) take an honest and critical look at the uncomfortable subjects of sexual manipulation and relationship-rape, then perhaps "Chick Lit" is a handy vehicle with which to expore these difficult and unsavory topics.

An Unexpected Exile is now a complete manuscript. I suspect that, if it ever gets published, virtually every woman who reads it will identify with my protagonist, Risa Weinberg, to some extent. What woman has not lost herself in the name of romance? Who among us has not confused the fleeting passions of the flesh with an enduring connection (and that's if we're lucky!)? Who hasn't gotten so caught up in planning her perfect wedding, that she ignored the long-view and could not see beyond the appetizer to the real meal, i.e., being married to that man?

So now what? I'm still-just-a-wannabe. Should I leave poor Millie Moskowitz by the wayside in favor of pitching AUE? Will either Millie or Risa ever get to see the light of day (or the dusty darkness of a bookstore shelf)? Should I self-publish on Amazon? Throw in the towel? Or . . .

Write something else, maybe nonfiction this time. How about, "Lessons from a Former-Fattie (If I Can Do It, Not Everybody Can)"? Might there be a "super-market" for something like that? Am I masochistic enough to write it? Let me know what you think. I'd love to hear from you.