For the past six years or so, The Kansas City Star has had a feature called “Midwest Voices.” This is a sort of make-work program for wannabe writers like myself. I applied the first year. I sent them a personal essay which I knew wasn’t the kind of writing they were looking for, but I was too lazy to try to come up with something political and edgy.

            In November, 2007, I applied again. This time I sent three opinion pieces with the promise of more where they came from and a teaser of the mixed marriage I came from politically. I left no doubt to which side I ended up on.

            Early in December, I had an email from them in my inbox. I opened it excitedly to find the usual we’ve received your submission; we have lots of great submissions; we’ll let you know by the end of December if you’re chosen. A week later I sent them a submission for the “As I See It” column. It was about a married state politician who played footsie and other more intimate games with an also-married subordinate. The politician announced his resignation before there was any need for the publication of my call for that very action.

            December came and went. I began to question myself. Had I been too self-confident in my approach? Being confident is something I have to push myself to do. I’m naturally quiet. It’s when I write that I come off cocky and self-assured.

            On the afternoon of January 4, I got the call that I had been selected for the panel. I sat there swallowing with difficulty after I got off the phone. I began to question myself.

        Was that a prank call from someone who knew that I had submitted? I couldn’t think of anyone that I’d told outside my family, and I hadn’t even told all of them. “Don’t tell anyone,” I told my husband and children when I told them the about the phone call. I was waiting for the promised email confirmation before I told anyone else.

            Did I really want to be that out front? I knew the answer to that. I love to write, and I love to write about my opinions instead of figuring out complicated plot lines and complex characters. If I had my druthers, I’d be syndicated and pull in tons of money—like Ann Coulter, which means I’d better get started on my diet. I’ve read several of her books. On one she appears on the front with her trademark long blonde hair, well-toned arms framing her leather sleeveless vest. If I dressed like that, I’d look like some aging motorcycle mama without the tattoos.

            I already had two appointments set up for Wednesday afternoon which was the day that I was supposed to go to the Star for a welcome luncheon and to have the picture taken that would appear with my column. I decided that, since she’s almost 20, it’s time for my daughter to take her own car in for an oil change. I could still make it to my 3 o‘clock eye appointment.

        I called to make an appointment with my hairdresser for first thing Wednesday morning. I figured even if the call had been a practical joke, I was overdue for good haircut.

        It’s somewhat (no, a lot) pretentious to call Teri “my hairdresser.” The last time I’d seen her was the end of June when I was getting ready to go to a luau in honor of an old college roommate’s second marriage.

        “Do you want a straight bob again?” Teri asked when I went in Wednesday morning. I was impressed. It’s been six months, and I’m not that memorable. Later I told my family about it.

        “They keep records,” my son explained.

        “Yeah,” my husband said. “When I go in, they ask me if I want a number five again.”

        “And I tell them I want a one around and five on top,” my son said. “That’s longer on top and shorter around the bottom. You should tell them you want a five on top and a one around,” he told my husband. “Mess with them.”  My husband is totally bald on top except for a few random hairs, a condition that my sons are resigned to someday sharing since it is also the state of my father’s pate.

        I arrived at the Star building with plenty of time to spare in spite of the fact that I had gone back home once to put on hand lotion and then got lost in downtown Kansas City in spite of the good directions I’d been given. Some other people were hanging around in the lobby. It was obvious we must all be there for the same reason. We introduced ourselves and stood around trying to be cool. At least that’s what I was doing. Maybe they really were.

        The administrative assistant met us and took us up to the editorial board room. There we were introduced to several of the board members. They all looked like their pictures. I resigned myself to the fact that we probably aren’t getting glamour shots.

        They handed out the schedule for the year. I’m at the top of the list. No problem. I’d written something earlier in the week. It was about the economy, Stupid, and the fact that my husband’s retirement account is shrinking because other people can’t control their spending. Oh, but there’s been a change in the schedule. They’re using Jonathan’s this week, because his submission was kind of short and they’re running introductions for the whole panel with the column. Also, no problem. The way the stock market’s been going, it will still be going down next week. A few tweaks, add a hundred words, and this’ll still be good.

        While we were eating lunch, we introduced ourselves around the table. The new Voices writer across from me diagrammed the table on the back of one of the sheets of paper we’d been given. On it, she wrote everyone’s name and tidbits from our introductions. (I’ll bet she got straight A’s in school, too.) She still managed to finish eating before I did. I ate slowly and carefully even though I had an extra top in the car in case I spilled on myself. I was never a Boy Scout—or Girl Scout for that matter—but I wasn’t about to have my picture online with a big blob of my lunch adorning my sweater. There are just some things you learn from experience.

        “Are you going to get paid?” or “How much are you going to get paid?” were variations of the question on the top of my family’s list. Not a lot, it turns out. After taxes, my first column will probably just about pay for my haircut. That’s OK for right now. A writer without a reader is like a preacher without a pulpit. (This may not be a perfect simile, but it works for me.) For years I’ve been content with filing all my witty repartee on my computer and allowing it to gather dust. (Have you ever opened up your computer? Where does that stuff come from?)

        The Star also wants us to blog. That’s something I’m excited about doing. My son says some people make thousands a month blogging. It’s not going to be happening here. For blogging, they pay nothing. I won’t even be able to buy breath mints.

        It seems like the editor making the presentation looks at me every time she talks about blogging. I give her the innocent look with my big brown eyes. (But, really, when you wear glasses, the innocent look or any other look pretty much lacks effect.) I think she suspects the truth. I’m a person not totally averse to stirring the pot. And I have way too much time on my hands.

January 10, 2008

            I got up this morning and set up my account on voices.kansascity.com. Emailed Don so he can set up my rights (whatever they are).

            I posted a breezy, humorous (well, I thought so anyway) introduction. I said that I would be providing balance on the opinion page while comparing myself to Ann Coulter with little digs at the physical differences (huge) and ended with a not-unlike Ann Coulter challenge in which I welcomed the reader to challenge my views and refrain from ad hominem attacks. I advised them to buy a dictionary if they didn’t know what that meant, knowing full well that my statement could be considered an indirect ad hominem attack. (My son-in-law, who graduated something cumlaude, admitted that he had to look it up. I know cumlaude is supposed to be two words, but townhall found it offensive when I wrote it correctly.)

        Jenniferm took the bait a little over 30 minutes later and demanded that I indicate the political leaning of all the editors. I thought that was pretty evident from the article when they asked for submissions. It the same as said that preference would be given to conservative writers in order to provide balance. That article was on the table in my office for weeks until, in a brief moment of cleaning frenzy, I threw it out.

        I went off to do my grocery shopping. I thought maybe I was in danger of having a pout moment like Hillary did at whichever debate that was when she was questioned about her likeability. When I got home, I found more posts. BuddyT provided the political bent of the entire editorial board and columnists from his point of view. (Really, there’s an honest-to-goodness conservative? One guy mainly writes about his hunting trips and his wife. I’m not sure how you figure out political leanings from that.)

        Today I also started my first column. Last night I woke up in the middle of the night. The Tuesday after my column appears will be the 35^th anniversary of the Roe v. Wade decision. How can I live with myself if I don’t address that issue? But this time is different. I won’t present the evils of abortion but rather the beauty of life. If my husband agrees, I will tell our story.

January 11, 2008

        This morning I sent my rough draft to the editor. If they aren’t satisfied with a column that is more story than opinion, I need to know because the column’s due Monday, and I’ll need the weekend to get something done. It’s returned with a few suggestions. One thing they want is something on public policy. All I’ll have room for is talking about personal responsibility. Tonight my husband and our younger daughter, the child who was the surprise in our family, read my column. It’s the first time my daughter has heard the story.

        Today some of my fellow Midwest Voices writers finally stick their toes in the water. One comes in shooting—at me. She quickly tried to distance herself from me with prattle about Ann Coulter and her mean and intolerant cronies. I make a note to take Denise off my Christmas card list. (Of course I’m kidding. She was never in danger of being on my list. My own family is lucky to get a card.)

January 12, 2008

        This morning I found the local section of the Star. Jonathan’s picture appears on the front. I sure hope they get the printer fixed before next Saturday because somehow Jonathan has acquired an extra pair of eyes and an extra mouth.

        This afternoon I was startled to find some posts from a Marine who seems to think that I’m part of the Chablis crowd, and that 2008 will be another year of “teachy term papers.” I’m a nondrinker, but I’m pretty sure that Chablis is an expensive wine. I started composing a reply to him. I’m hot under the collar. I am not someone who has come to conservatism because of money.

        There is also a reply from someone who told a stupid joke in a futile attempt to dispute my opinion that liberals lack a sense of humor. S/he also wants to dictate the contents of my first column and challenges me to reveal what I have done for the country. I think about responding with something like, “You mean besides raising four law-abiding citizens without the aid of the government? Are you still taking in the homeless and raising the dead?” I refrain.

        Tonight we took my older son and his wife out for his birthday dinner. When we got home, my younger daughter mentioned casually, “Mom’s causing a ruckus on her blog.” Everyone rushed to my computer to take a look. After I showed them the postings I’ve received, I showed them what I’ve written so far to the Marine.

        “How about the manure?” my husband suggested. I added that to what I’ve already written. I’m laying it on thick now. I didn’t spend every day of my life pitching manure, but I do remember when we’d dig lots of inches of the hard, dry stuff off the barn floor which gave the effect of raising the ceiling.

        We didn’t pick all the field corn by hand, but we’d go through the field picking what the combine missed. Raking hay and my neopolitan summer tan are completely unexaggerated.

         I’ve also left out picking rocks and pumping water for the cattle in the lot. And driving cattle. I hated driving cattle. Woe to the person (usually me) who left a hole for a steer to escape. Good grief, those creatures were several times my size. (Although I’m gaining on them now and may no longer find them so intimidating.)

        And gathering eggs was a job that really sucked, too. Just why is it that my husband and I are planning to move to the country when he retires?

         My son chuckles as he reads my post to the Marine. "No, I don't think anyone would call your writing 'term-paperish.'"