at least it's not bedbugs

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We've been having a little problem with head lice in our household.

No great surprise there. It's epidemic in New York City schools, and both my kids are young, prime let-me-hug-you-head-to-head age, and both go to schools that have decided not to check for lice, not to send kids home who have the bugs or the nits. So they bring the critters home. They give them to me (lice love curly hair, and contrary to myth, they love black-people hair, too; ask my African daughter). And then we go to all these ridiculous lengths to get rid of them—paying the Hasidic ladies to  pick them out for us, picking them out ourselves using gobs of Pantene and a fine-tooth comb, using the chemical shampoo, blow drying Cetaphil cleanser into our hair, washing everything in the apartment, putting the poor American Girl doll in the freezer. It works. We have lice remission. Then someone has a sleepover and we start all over again.

It's a pain in the neck. Literally. Or maybe an itch in the neck. But such is life in NYC. Though some people here are in denial. Apparently one ritzy public school also doesn't do checks, not, like our school, because they are too expensive but because parents there don't want to believe lice happens to their kind. Apparently when parents there find out their kids are infected they say things like "My child can't have lice. Don't you know what I do?"  That cracks me up. Like do the uber rich have bouncers bugs that hang out on their children's hair, keeping the riffraff parasites away?

But as I battle these annoying little creatures, as I'm elbow-deep in Pantene and waist-deep in laundry, I find myself thinking: "At least it's not bedbugs."

See, New York City is also in the midst of a bedbug epidemic. And because I'm soo cutting edge, I already had bedbugs, back in my old apartment, in 2005. (Apparently some people are cagey about discussing such things, as if they reflect badly on their personal hygiene or something. I am not. Though I have already shared publicly about my lack of showering on this blog so….Whatever.  I'm pretty sure I got my bedbugs from being a world traveler, back in the day. Or from having the wood floors redone.)

Unlike lice, bedbugs are insanely hard to get rid of, and New Yorkers live in fear of getting them. And simply by writing "At least it's not bedbugs," I sort of wonder if I've just jinxed myself into getting them.

And it occurs to me that those two sentiments—"At least it's not bedbugs"—and "Shit, did I just doom myself to a certain fate of bedbugs by saying that?"—so perfectly illuminate the writer's state of mind.

Being a writer, among other things, means a constant shifting of one's expectations, and, if you're halfway healthy about it, a constant talking one's self out of disappointments. Book didn't do as well as you'd hoped? Well, there's always the next one. Manuscript not working? There's always revisions. Nobody showed up to your reading? Well, Glee is on tonight. Even if your career is going well, being a writer, or an artist of any kind, I think, requires a delicate dance of expectation management. Managing your own expectations, your readers, the people you work with. And considering that your fates rise and fall and rise again with every new book, new project, this requires some fancy footwork, some serious psychological outsmarting of yourself. A lot of "Well, at least it's not bedbugs." No matter how well things are going, there are always things you can feel insecure about. But no matter how insecure you're feeling, there are always things to feel positive about. Because lice are lice; they aren't bedbugs. You have to always focus on that. Lumps happen. Rejection, little and big, is a daily part of what we do. But if you can talk yourself out of the fact that it's not bedbugs, you've won half the battle. (And if you do get bedbugs, then you take it a step further. At least it's not giant rats. There's always something worse than what you've got! If you have giant rats, you probably have really cheap rent! Etc, etc.)

But  there's another half of the battle. We writers are a superstitious lot. So even saying things aren't as bad as they seem almost seems to invite the furies. (Or maybe this isn't all writers. Maybe this is me. When you read Where She Went, perhaps Adam's superstitious side will make some sense.) But I think a lot of us are waiting for the shoe to fall. Anyone's who has tasted a little bit of success has to look over their shoulder, wonder why me? Or how did I fool them? Or how long of a head start till they catch on? In other words, Now that I said it's not bedbugs, what is that suspicious pattern of bite marks on my arm? Better go check the mattress for blood stains.

Obviously, this is a glimpse into the darker side of the process. There is so much that is wonderful to this life and so much that we writers grateful about. (In a nutshell: you guys.) But just in case you're wondering, we are totally insecure creatures, too. Even those who from the outside have big shiny stamps of approval on them. The more I talk to people, the more I realize, everyone is like this. Which is so comforting. It's like knowing the whole class has lice, too (they do! It's why it keeps getting recycled!).

Anyhow, sorry to ramble. I'm sleep deprived. I have been battling lice. And  feverishly writing a novel that I have shown to no one. A novel that my wonderfully discerning editor may or may not choose to publish. I don't know.  In less than two months I have a new book coming out that readers may or may not embrace. These are factors out of my control. Whatever happens, I'll find a way to absorb it. I will find a way to look at the bright side, to manage my ever-changing expectations. Because at least it's not bedbugs. Right?