This will be brief.
“This will be brief.” Sigh. Those of you who know me must be getting familiar with those words by now. Because of the stinky yucky manuscript, which by the way I have decided I TOTALLY DESPISE, I am getting in the habit of starting every email with those words. I ought to save myself time and set up a template for my emails, like this:
Dear Person I Was Nice to Before I Started Writing This Godforsaken Book,
This will be brief, on account of my accursed manuscript, which is due next month, which is, frankly, impossible to believe, unless we take into consideration the likelihood that the space/time continuum has fractured, and if that is the case, then I must register my severe disappointment that the media failed to adequately cover it.
[Insert short, bland, generally dissatisfying paragraph here.]
Anyway, I’ve got to run. I’ll resume communication with you in June.
Tomorrow I’m going to the Computers in Libraries conference in Arlington. I’ll be driving there. This means that I will have to navigate my car onto the Beltway. I am petrified. I hate traffic. I hate heavy traffic. I hate DC traffic. I may very well turn into a grease spot if someone sideswipes me.
If this happens, please: Don’t feel obligated to finish the manuscript based on my notes. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. I am not sure who my worst enemy is, but it’s the thought that counts.
I am twenty-seven today. Hum.
Hasn’t been the best of birthdays (something about my being in a permanently cranky, super-stressed mood may be related to that; also consider that the washing machine stole three dollars in quarters, and Goblin kicked all the cat litter out of the cat box), but it hasn’t been the worst of birthdays, either. The worst was when I was in the second grade, when I invited alllll the girls in my class to a birthday party, and not a single one of them showed.
Twenty-seven seems awfully young to be turned into a grease spot.
Have I mentioned how I loathe the book? I swear, I was absolutely craving a novel to read last night, any novel, anything (well—maybe not a romance) to take my mind off things. Compared to people who crave, say, basic health care and food, I guess I don’t have it so bad, but it sure felt awful. And I am continuing to feel absolutely wretched, a condition I rather suspect will continue till the book is finished.
Need to pack now. And then I need to… I need to… Dang, it’s on the tip of my tongue. Some pesky little chore, no doubt… Oh, right, the book! Almost forgot about it, ha ha, silly me!
Sigh. I’ll post again next week, but let me warn you now: It will be brief.