Reflections on New Kids

I've been trying to get my thoughts together in a coherent fashion ever since I sat in the Grandstand at the Delaware State Fair on Sunday night with three of my girlfriends. I was offered free tickets by my friend Dawn, who instant messaged me last week and asked "Did you like New Kids on the Block back in the day?"

I'm five or six years younger than Dawn and the other two girlfriends who accompanied us, so I was the one "ripe" for New Kids at the tender age of fourteen when I attended my first concert at the Indiana State Fair. The headliner was Tiffany, but it's safe to say that the boy band from Boston stole the show. I went on to see them two more times: once the following summer when they returned to the Indiana State Fair, this time with Tiffany as their opening act, then again at Market Square Arena in downtown Indy. I believe it was January 1990. I even have the photo evidence:

I'm in the back row, second from the left, and I'm quite certain my hair has never been more voluminous.

 

 

As I sat there on Sunday, I had so many thoughts I could barely enjoy the show. Which, was, I'll be honest just okay. It was obvious they were actually singing, at least the lead vocals, and there was some straining involved at times. But they were definitely still entertaining, and I applaud them for getting out there and still calling themselves "New Kids" when they are all around 45. That takes some balls. Seriously.

I was thinking about the fact that my father escorted my girlfriends and me to the three concerts back in the day. What a good sport! It might truly be the most selfless thing my father ever did for me. We don't talk anymore. It's been about a year since I've heard anything from him, and that was after he sent me an email telling me he vowed to do better at communicating with me. Oh well. I can look back on those 2 years of him attending concerts with me and my girlfriends and really feel appreciative. I hope I thanked him enough back in the day.

Secondly, since I have sons the same age that the New Kids were "back in the day," I tried to imagine what my life would be like if I were the mother of pop stars. At least three of the New Kids came from huge families. I mean the Wahlbergs had like a dozen kids or something. I really can't imagine what it would have been like for their parents or even for the teens themselves to grow up with that kind of life. The fact that they all seem like relatively well-adjusted adults now is pretty awesome, honestly.

And thirdly...probably most importantly, I thought about the innocence I lost between the first time I saw them and the second. At the time of the first concert, I was entering 9th grade, a pudgy nerd who hadn't really had a boyfriend. By the second concert, I was at the height of my eating disorder. I'd shed forty pounds and I'd lost my virginity — against my will — but nevertheless. But even then I didn't really understand "boys" or my sexuality. I was all swoony over these semi-fictional characters on a stage, and I didn't get that they were really the same as all the other young men in my life. Now they're grown up and have wives and kids of their own. They were mere mortals after all, who knew?

They say, and I've said so many times, that "you can never go home," but Sunday night was a strange opportunity to sit in the seat my fourteen-year-old self had once occupied. I was able to channel some of the exact thoughts I had twenty-seven years ago and to recognize how naive and childlike I still was at fourteen. From my vantage twenty-seven years ago, I would have never imagined that I'd grow up to get a masters in library science, to have three sons, to get married, divorced and remarried, move to the East Coast, or that I'd become a famous author.

Okay, so I'm still waiting for that last one to happen.
 

Coming Out

I'm officially coming out.

Yes, I've been in the closet for most of my life. It's a big dark closet, and there's a wide range of clothing sizes hung in it. It's the Fat Closet.

I was thinking the other day about what a huge step it is for me to be able to write about my personal experiences with being fat and having an eating disorder, to even admit I've suffered from an eating disorder. But it was an even *bigger* step to boldly call my book FAT GIRL.

What's the big deal, you ask?

Well, I've spent most of my life, since about age eight, trying to disguise, downplay and hide the fact that I'm fat. It sounds ridiculous, doesn't it? Because, naturally, you only have so much power over how your body is perceived by others. And there's only so much you can do to conceal your blubber. It's not like you can wear a "skinny suit."

But I was in denial.

Maybe if I just didn't draw attention to myself by eating in front of people, they wouldn't know I was fat? I literally starved myself for hundreds, maybe thousands, of meals between the ages of 12 and hell, probably as late as 2014, all because I didn't want people to think I was fat because I ate a lot.

I didn't really do the whole "baggy clothes to hide my fat" kind of thing but I did, have, and still spend way too much money in my endless pursuit of fashion that will accentuate the positive and de-emphasize the negative. Like "Maybe if I just wear the perfect outfit people won't notice that I weigh over 200 pounds?"

And finally, there were years I didn't talk about it. I didn't talk about my weight, dieting, what I ate, how much I worked out (which was often excessively) because all I wanted to do was appear normal, average, medium. When I was at the height of my eating disorder, I wasn't striving to be some size 2 model-thin waif, because I know these thick thighs and big butt will never go there. I just wanted to be normal. I just wanted to not be fat.

It's like being fat was the worst fate I could imagine.

But the older I get, the more I realize that, although my weight may still be above average or more than recommended for my height, I am normal. In fact, I have been normal this whole time, at every weight I've been. I am not, and have never been, some freak with a body to be ashamed of. At every point in that range, from 135 pounds to 275 pounds, I've been a remarkably smart, compassionate, and yes, even beautiful woman.

More important is the other thing I've discovered: the demons I've fended off for most of my life are pervasive and ubiquitous. Though my story is deeply personal, the threads of it are woven through the stories of millions of other people. There's not been one person - man or woman - I have spoken with about my book who couldn't identify with Claire's -- and by extension -- my struggles.

Knowing how heavily the book draws from my own life, several people have asked me to separate out truth from fiction. Claire's family situation and her ex-husband are rather different than mine, but her experiences with weight, dieting, bullying, and fat shaming? Yeah, all of that is me. Those painful memories? Those happened. And I'm still coming to terms with them.

The biggest difference between Claire and myself? She's a hell of a lot funnier than me.

See for yourself: http://www.amazon.com/Fat-Girl-K-L-Montgomery-ebook/dp/B00UUMA1MK/

It feels good to finally be out in the light.

A Reader's Guide to Fat Girl

My next novel, Fat Girl, will be live on Amazon in both print and digital formats on 4.15.15. I thought I'd share a few thoughts with readers so you have some context, background, and general expectations for the book.

1. Fat Girl is full of humor. The main character, Claire Sterling, is sarcastic and cynical. Don't take her too seriously and don't be afraid to laugh!

2. Some of Fat Girl is emotional, especially when Claire shares hurtful experiences she had growing up, both with her peers and her mother. Nearly all of those memories are based on things that actually happened to me. This is the first time I've ever shared many of these stories.

3. Claire is getting a divorce and venturing out into the dating world. She shares several messages and conversations from an online dating site. The interactions in the book are nearly all actual real-life correspondence received by either me or friends, complete with horrific spelling and grammar!

4. While not technically a romance, there is a strong romantic element to the book. I'm not characterizing it as a romance because I think the purpose of the book is much broader.

5. Like Claire, I have struggled with disordered eating for most of my life. I don't think it's something from which one ever fully recovers, but writing this book has done a great deal to help me heal and form new patterns of thought and behavior.

If you'd like to pre-order a Fat Girl e-book, you may here: http://amzn.com/B00UUMA1MK 

Claire Sterling on Labels - an excerpt from Fat Girl

Claire writes a newspaper column. Here is one of them:

The Reinvention by Claire Sterling
    

I would like to take a moment to discuss with you my feelings about Fat Labels. I have pretty strong feelings about this topic having spent so much of my life as a card-carrying member of the Fat Alliance. Of course, there’s no such thing, but there really should be. Can you imagine how much we could accomplish if we all stuck together? It’s called inertia, people. Once we got all that mass moving, how could we possibly be stopped?

How many of you use the term BBW to describe yourself? Or maybe you prefer the terms “voluptuous,” "plus-size," “curvy,” “thick” or “fluffy.” I’m here to tell you this: YOU ARE FAT. Those other terms are just euphemisms. Yet they’re not really flattering when you think about it. And they’re certainly not descriptive. A good label actually tells a person what to expect, and none of those truly fit the bill. I’m going to take a moment to outline the problems with these labels:

BBW: For those of you who have been living under a rock (or maybe at the gym), this one means Big Beautiful Woman. I hate to break it to the ladies who use this term, but you’re not all beautiful. As a matter of fact, some of y’all are downright ugly. That second B doesn’t just magically happen because of the first one, or even in spite of it. And conversely, being thin doesn’t make someone beautiful either. There are loads of ugly skinny chicks out there. Just as beauty comes in all shapes and sizes, so does ugly.

Plus-Size: What the fashion industry really means by “plus-size” is “less.” Not “less is more,” but “more is less.” They can’t even agree on what plus-size is except for it being inferior to “regular sizes.” I’ve seen many sources claiming the “average” American woman wears a size 14 or 16, and by most standards, THOSE are “plus sizes.” So maybe we should start calling sizes 0-10 “minus sizes.” I don’t see that one ever happening! But I digress. If you’re buying into the Fashion Industry Bullshit by using the term “plus size” to describe yourself, then you’re basically admitting that you’re not as good as someone who wears a single digit. You are you: not more or less than anyone else. Just you.

Voluptuous: This is just the fun-to-say (and unfortunately, mispronounce – newsflash: there’s NO “M”) cousin of the elitist-sounding “rubensque.” Has anyone ever painted your nude portrait in oils? Then no. Just no.

Curvy: I actually think curvy is an excellent descriptor. However, I don’t believe rolls of fat rippling down your body is what anyone envisions when they hear the word “curvy.” Don’t have an hourglass figure? Then you don’t get to call yourself curvy. Sorry.

Thick: Thick was originally an insult for people who are stupid. Is that really how you want to describe yourself?

Fluffy: Sheep are fluffy. People are not. Unless they have a serious body hair issue.

What’s unfortunate is we have turned the best, most descriptive label for People of Size into a bad word. And speaking of “People of Size,” um, really? We are all “People of Size,” the sizes are just different. And besides, since People of Color is now commonly abbreviated POC, I pretty much feel “People of Size” may even be crueler than calling someone fat. Just like Promiscuous Nymphos (you go, girls!) are reclaiming the word “slut,” I want to reclaim the word “fat” for all of us who have a little more meat on our bones. It’s not meat, of course. It’s fat. Which is why we should just use the word. It’s short, it’s sweet, and it works.

Just call me fat.

The Dark Side of Self-Publishing (a.k.a. GrammarGate)

Anyone can be a writer now.

Self-publishing one's words in the form of novels, blog posts, tweets, Facebook rants, and myriad other outlets has become commonplace. Although there are equal numbers of platforms for sharing graphics or images, never has it been so easy to disseminate one's written ideas to large numbers of people. I suppose we have the internet to thank for democratizing thoughts, opinions, and information.

In many ways, I think it's awesome that curmudgeonly editors no longer hold the keys to the publishing castle. Let's face it, if I had to rely on a literary agent or publishing house to publish my four novels, there's a good chance I wouldn't have gotten past the traditional guardians of the written word. And if I'd not had the opportunity to post my thoughts and ramblings on various blogs throughout the past eight years, there's a good chance I would have never had the confidence to put my ideas in print. Self-publishing has certainly been a wonderful development for me.

But there is definitely a dark side to the ease and immediacy of blasting our words out into cyberspace. I came across several reminders of this dark side today while exploring trending topics on Facebook and Twitter. Two happened to be on the same topic, DeflateGate. Unless you're an extreme Media Hermit, you are likely aware that DeflateGate involves the 11 deflated footballs used in the January 18th NFL playoff game between the New England Patriots and the Indianapolis Colts. I should disclose that I was born in Indianapolis, so it's not hard to imagine where my loyalties lie, but that's neither here nor there. I'm much more disturbed by our deflated standards for writing than I am by deflated footballs.

One was an article in USAToday which had apparently never seen the eyes of an editor. Rather, it was pushed out in a rush after Bill Belichick's press conference earlier today. There were several errors, mostly typos. Reading it made my head and stomach hurt a little. This is a national newspaper publishing an article with glaring grammatical and spelling errors. And why? To save the few measly minutes it would have taken for an editor to fix them. We value timeliness over correctness, not only for the facts, but also for the delivery.

Another example was a blog post picked up by an Indianapolis media outlet that was written by a "mommy blogger." In her post, she implored the NFL to set some standards so that we can teach children that breaking rules has consequences and all that jazz. But she opened her blog post with the phrase "strike a cord" instead of "strike a chord." More head and stomach hurting ensued. I know not everyone out there is an English major, but I feel pretty strongly that writers should at least strive to get their idioms right. There seem to be no consequences for breaking the rules of English, but there's no outrage over GrammarGate.

I also read an article today encouraging women to be naked more frequently (obviously I have a wide range of interests!) The author used the phrase "drop trowel."  Um no. It is "drop trou," not "drop trowel." The author clearly didn't know the difference because she used the word "trowel" twice.  And apparently an editor didn't catch that either.

Three articles, three disappointments for this Grammar Snob.

Furthermore, as an indie author, I follow a lot of other indie authors on social media. Sometimes I read particularly cringe-worthy excerpts that make me question why in the world these individuals decided that writing was a suitable career, or even hobby for that matter. And then to see that these books get sold and garner positive reviews is just befuddling to me. Do their fans overlook the obvious issues or are they completely ignorant of the poor quality of the writing, both in style and syntax? Don't even get me started about how the junior-high level 50 Shades became such a phenomenon.

I am not sure what the solution to this issue is. I like the fact that so many people are taking an interest in writing, specifically in writing complete sentences devoid of abbreviations and text talk. I like the fact that people want to express themselves publicly and to foster discourse and debate. I feel hopeful that the written word is far from dead. But I also feel sad that our standards for grammatical conventions are so low. And that so many seem not to care. Do we continue down this path? Do we let the language evolve to have different or looser rules? Or is there something that can be done to renew an interest in learning and adhering to grammatical conventions?

Now it's your turn to write. Please share your answers in complete sentences with correct punctuation and spelling! #comeonyoucandoit #goodgrammarrules (pardon the pun!)

an excerpt from Fat Girl

 From Chapter Seven of my upcoming novel Fat Girl:

     My week is a roller coaster. Just after I reveled in seeing my first column in print in the illustrious New York Times, I received this lovely, expertly-crafted message on the dating site: “U don’t show pics here cuz u a cow. Moooooooo.”

     My cheeks were instantly engulfed in flames, glowing with red hot embarrassment. The involuntary reaction swiftly transported me back to an equally humbling event from my childhood. I was twelve years old and in the seventh grade. It was the first year that I actually became interested in the opposite sex beyond playing kiss tag on the playground at recess. It was during the week, a school night, and we were on our way to some school function, maybe a band concert? In our haste, we stopped by a local fast food establishment for dinner where I sat at a table with my parents and my sister. Across the restaurant were three teenage boys, probably a little older than me, I’m guessing eighth or ninth graders. I didn’t recognize them, which meant that they were either already in high school or they went to a different junior high than I did. In any case, through the whole meal, I caught them staring at me and smiling, joking around to each other, and then looking back at me. I sincerely thought they were flirting with me. One of them was pretty cute, so I was flattered and, yes, even a slight bit twitterpated as I wasn’t used to attracting the attention of boys.

     My mother got up to take my sister to the restroom while my father scooped up all the trash onto two plastic trays and began to head off toward the receptacle when the boys approached me. They dropped a napkin face down on the table before me as they exited the restaurant. I flipped it over expecting a love note of sorts. What I saw was: “Quit staring, fattie.”

     Blood pumped to my cheeks like magma preparing to explode from a volcano. I crumpled the napkin into my hand and forced myself to act normally as my family returned to the table. I remember feeling like my legs each weighed a thousand pounds as I plodded toward the door, the weight of their ridicule pressing into my lungs. At twelve years old, I was on the chunky side, but not grossly overweight. I was around 5 feet 4 inches, tall for my age, and I weighed about 150 pounds. I wore a size 12 in women’s clothes, having left girl’s sizes behind in fifth grade. That particular night, for the concert, I had squeezed into my mother’s size 10 blazer. I was feeling pretty mature and feminine as I believed the jacket nicely accentuated my developing curves. But that little spark of self-confidence had been instantaneously obliterated by three hateful words scrawled on a fast food restaurant napkin. 

     It wasn’t the first time that I had been publicly shamed about my weight. And I knew even then that it wouldn’t be the last. What to this day I could never understand was why or how people could be so cruel. Many kids who are bullied run to their mothers, earnestly needing the comfort and consolation that only a mother can provide when one’s intrinsic value has been attacked. But I never told my mother about any of these incidents. Sometimes the comments she made about my growing body were as hurtful as any bully’s.