Okay, folks! It’s that time of year again where I indulge in self-torment, high quantities of caffeine, demonstrate my ability to not forage for food, and agonize over all the crap that has to be done before I can even sit down to write.
This is your warning. Your only warning.
I may or may not be blogging at all for the wonderful month of November. I’m pretty sure my stress levels will be determined by how I have failed to do laundry or dishes or clean the house. Hopefully my boyfriend will get the hint. Or not. I can anticipate him providing me with provisions though, as Adele (or Queen) mourn their tales of woe through my iPhone while the clacking of the keyboard mounts a tempestuous tale of its own. Maybe I’ll include some BlackBriar, Sara Barielles, Ellie Goulding, or Eminem to proffer as the muse for my novel.
Sylvia Plath and Hemingway simply will not do as an audible. But, by the end of November, I may find myself at the end of a rope. Not to hang myself with but more as a cliffhanger in anticipation of my next novel. The line is dangling and the fish are already biting. I’ve had a few read the first few rough drafts of my current novel. They are begging for more. One of them even slapped me on the arm, wanting to know where the rest of it is. I simply tapped my temple and said, “In here. Locked safely away until next time”. She was mad at me. Until I promised her the first signed copy.
She will be getting the very first signed copy.
I’m on the hunt for an editor. Someone majoring in English Lit at a local college will suffice as long as there is the understanding that I can only pay in coffee or use of my culinary skills.
Yes, I have skills. Guys like girls with skills.