waiting on an editor letter is a little like setting yourself on fire

The work-in-progress novel is coming back from the editor this weekend.

I’m a nervous wreck!

My first round of beta-readers (pre-editor) have been largely positive, and the editor got a better version of the manuscript than they got, so…I can hope.

(Can’t I?  A little bit? I can hope I don’t need to RETHINK MY ENTIRE LIFE?)

But to editors, I always say…
hit me as hard as you can
…and I mean it.  Don’t worry about my feelings, I insist. I need to know all the broken parts. Before the book is published.  While I still have time to FIX IT.  That is, before the public shaming of the dreaded [hushed whisper] 1 Star Review.
i'm not nervous at all

I’ll get the email, with its .doc attachment and lunge to open it….

Will it be one of these?
mind blown
…or one of these?
throws away computer
stomps on computer
One always hopes for one of these…
crazy dancing
…yeah, but I’ve been doing this long enough to know that’s just wishful thinking.

I haven’t written anything new in 2015.  SHOCKING. Instead, I’ve been on some kind of sabbatical where I READ ALL THE THINGS, at least, all the things written by Samuel Delany. I’ve already mentioned Dhalgren, Through the Valley of the Nest of Spiders, and Stars in My Pocket Like Grains of Sand here on the blog.  But how about Babel-17…amazing! Empire Star…amazing! Motion of Light in Water…yeah, yeah, you get the idea.

It’s hard for my little writer-self to take in. What’s the freaking point to writing anything at all when someone can write like …that?

Whatever.  It’s not like I’m giving it up (can’t, it’s like hypergraphia or something).  So, start the count-down. I’ll be losing it, in some fashion, in just a few days.

I should probably start drinking now.

P.S. Several people wrote to ask me how the dentist went, oh you funny little readers, I love you.  It was fine, I have perfect teeth, the dentist always says, “What are you doing here? Go home.”

And my wonderful hygienist, Hilda, bless her, was SHOCKED when it was revealed that I am about to turn 44.  “Get out!” she said.  “I thought you were just out of college or something!”

“You DID NOT,” I said back, “You practice that face in the mirror for your difficult clients, don’t you!”

“I do NOT,” she said.  “You don’t look your age at all.”

“Look at these wrinkles!” I said, pointing. “And these!”

“Un-un,” she said, getting back to work.  “I’ve got people in here all the time in their forties who look like they are in their sixties. Rinse.”  But she still looked surprised as she vacumed out my mouth with that sucky-tube-thing.  “Honey, you look fantastic.”

“May the angels sing your praises to the heavens,” I said. Well, more like, “aa dee angees seen ya payz to da heabens…”

My fragile ego needs all the help it can get right now.

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