It's 9:00 AM, 9/17/2003. The memory of my ex-neighbor from across the street plays on my mental monitor as I glance outside the kitchen window, for a brief moment. I remember her telling me about a website where aspiring writers such as me could showcase their creativity. ``Hmnnn... What is the site's name?'' I ponder, as I fill a tall glass with water. I saunter across to the home office and boot up the PC.
I know it had something to do with a nut... Almond? Pecan? Hazel?
Ah ha! Hazel! But Hazel what? Stooping my brows together and clinching my eyes, I probe my cerebrum for an answer. My forehead hurts as the neurons begin playing ping-pong. Hazel nut? No.
Hazel Fruit.
No, that doesn't make sense. It was hazel something.
Setting my glass on the desk, I sink into the chair. As I log in, I feel a sudden twinge in my left wrist. ``Ouch!'' I wince. I launch IE 6.0 and access my YAHOO! mail account. Then... Wham! ``It's aitch-aiy-zee-ee-el-ess-tee dot com, not street,'' I recall my neighbor as saying. It's Hazel Street!
I waste no time in navigating to www.hazelst.com. Between sips of water, I browse the content up and down and back and forth. Yea, all this is nice, but where are those submission guidelines? At last!

`` Send us whatever type of writing you please, maybe a poem, a story about your life?'' the website implores.

I want to continue, so I check the time on my wristwatch. 9:35. I must step out now to take care of errands. I leave my computer on, but shut off the monitor on my way out.

It's 05:38 PM. I log in and copy the email address from the website. I've looked forward to this all day. I switch to the YAHOO! mail window, click the compose button, and write:

Hello Editor,
Attached is a short (gulp) story about my ordinary life and the extraordinary steps I took to insure my well-being. Hope you will like it and consider it for publication on your website. Thanks.

I attach the file and click Send.

At last, my memoir is ready for publication! Hooray!
I only half-expect to hear back.

At 07:15 PM, I'm in the home office tidying up the computer desk when I hear a chime on my PC. Kachang!
Hoo hoo! Somebody's trying to reach me. I log in. The sender is someone called Carol Wood. I close a half an eye, sink my teeth into my lower lip, and whirl my head to the right, wondering who Carol Wood is.

The message reads, ``I've read a page and a half. I don't know who you are, or what you look like, where you are from or what your job was previously, but... I do like it,'' It then adds, ``Your language is elegant and lyrical, but I think it needs immediate concrete examples. ''

It's signed Carol Wood at the bottom and she promises to get back to me within a couple of days.
She's talking about the submission I made this morning! YES! She likes it!
I spend a glorious weekend. On Saturday night, I have a dream about floating on a cloud while signing autographs.

It's Monday, 10:00 AM, 9/23/2003.
I log in and check all the mundane email messages. Nothing from Carol Wood! I twirl my lips. I begin reading an absorbing piece on cnn.com. It's about California's recall election.
Kachang!
I glance over to the bottom right of the monitor to check the time; it's 10:51 AM. ``Yet another boring message to scan.'' I squabble.
I switch to the YAHOO! mail window and click the Inbox folder. ``Is it from Carol Wood?'' I wonder. The excitement is building as I scroll down the page to check the sender's name. It is from Carol Wood! With trembling fingers, I click open the message. The anticipation has reached its zenith. I can barely focus. A tinge of trepidation... Then... ``Oh!''

Her message reads, ``Your language is very elevated. Your topic is interesting, but you haven't told the story, you've danced around it. I can't post it as it is. ''

My mind goes blank, my breathing weakens, my vision blurs. ``I... don't believe this!''
I leave the room.
After a nourishing lunch consisting of a veggie sandwich and asymmetrical pieces of cantaloupe, I log in and recheck my messages. Carol's email is still hanging heavy on my mind like drapes on a window. I reread her message, absorbing all the painstaking details. She proposes a rewrite, with tips on how to incorporate actual experiences into the story.

``You have a gifted grasp of the English language,'' she compliments, and continues, ``Work on it and get back to me."

I like my article the way it is, but I accept her critique in stride and decide to revise it. ``It can't hurt to try a new angle,'' I rationalize. The driving force, I admit, is the subtle confidence she gives me through her message. I muster enough strength to write her a note, thanking her for reviewing my submittal and promising to get back to her with an improvised version.
I drink, eat, breathe, sleep, and dream the rewrite for two days straight. I get an uneasy feeling that she might not be the right audience for my writing, but I don't have time to pursue the hunch. By 10:00 PM on 9/25/2003, I decide I have a satisfactory version for resubmitting, but I don't send it. What if l had a better idea in the morning?

It's 10:22 AM, 9/26/2003. I send the revised file to Carol. Almost immediately, she responds.

``Close but no cigar,'' says her message. ``You are still dancing.''

I take a deep breath. I don't like the tone of the rest of her message. I understand frustration; I experience it too. So I reason, ``It's Friday,'' and further console myself, ``My subject is complicated and intense; she doesn't understand its focus.''

Nevertheless, her message continues, ``You are a good writer. You can do this.''

I'm not wearing an expression.
I try not to let it bother me, but her weighty words keep ringing in my head. I can't focus. I mix up my childrens' names more than usual. I can't remember what ingredients to use as I'm cooking. I can't drink water without spilling it. ``You seem to have a drinking problem today,'' my husband jokes. That's not enough to lift my spirits.

I get in bed, flat on my back. I can't sleep at first. I go over everything that has happened over the last few days. It's incredible how deeply this has impacted my life. I yawn and then turn over. My lower back hurts. I sleep it off.

It's 9:30 AM, 9/28/2003. I log in because I have to complete two newsletters for a couple of non-profits. I first read my incoming email messages. There 's one from Carol.

It reads, ``I need a new columnist. I need new work. I know you can do it. I'm attaching your former submission with comments. Get angry when you read them. Break things and then write. ''

The tone is mellow. ``What brought that about?'' I wonder. On an impulse, I surf to hazelst.com. I read a new posting on the home page: George Plimpton died last night in his sleep. Ah, ha! That explains the sudden shift in outlook. I empathize with her emotional state.
My priority right now is to get started on those newsletters. A couple of hours pass and I think about Carol's message. I know now that we're wrestling with different perspectives. I'm convinced she is not the best audience for my philosophical mumbo jumbo of a memoir.
If I want my material published on her Web site, I would need to abide by her conventions--both in style as well as in writing. That means two things for me:

1. First off, I'm an engineer, and everyone knows engineers are BAD writers. But I'm also a trained tech writer. Bet you didn't expect that twist. I'd have to re-learn everything I have spent years unlearning when it concerns style.

2. I'd need to borrow a time machine to go back in time to document evidence for every life principle listed in my memoir. A journal would have been nice, but I didn't keep one.

And another thing, since the time machine is not an option, I think I will observe my daily life hereafter to collect some evidence for my life principles.
On that note, I have just demonstrated life principle #1: Suspend Judgment and Develop Tolerance.
Hey, that 's terrific! I only have 9 more to cover!

Raji Lukkoor is an award winning freelancer and fulltime mom who resides in Saratoga, CA. You can reach her at rajilukkoor@yahoo.com.