Why getting an editor is a lot like dating, Part One. The Blind Date

You've finally done it - sitting there in your neat little hands is the proof that you truly have achieved the goal you set for yourself 2, 7, 19 years ago: YOU are now an AUTHOR!

Commence trumpets, confetti, streamers and parades.

Uh, not.

You see, my friend, the real work has just begun.

Sure, you spent hours toiling over the keyboard. You searched the dictionary and thesaurus for just the right word. You've checked punctuation, spelling and tense until you're tense. And now? Now you get an editor.

Being assigned an editor is a lot like going on a blind date. You have only the vaguest description of her (no, I'm not being sexist - I'm using "her" because my editor is a "her") and the assertion from your publisher that she is "amazing, easy to work with, likes puppies and kittens and doesn't bite on the first date."

Right.

You make arrangements to discuss your manuscript at a time convenient to both of you, at a place where you feel safe. You  have an emergency escape plan, in case the meeting doesn't go well. You tell your friend, your Mom, your sister and your friend's friend where and when you're meeting, in case you turn up missing or your manuscript grows legs and appears on someone else's blog as a serial novel - GAWD FORBID!

At the appointed time and date, you nervously hover over the phone/keyboard/skype screen and wait until the EXACT time you agreed to discuss your Precious. You pet Precious nervously, smooth your hair, check your teeth for leftover salad and try not to sweat.

It doesn't help. You sweat.

Your editor calls/emails/skypes/meets you. She seems nice enough. She soothes your nerves and flatters your words, telling you she loves your voice, appreciates your complex sentence structure, LOVES your story and everything about you. You are her dream and she never thought you would turn out to be as good "for real" as the publisher who hooked you two up made you sound.

You are thinking the same thoughts. How could this wonderful, sweet, sensitive, truly appreciative and obviously highly discerning intellectual be meant for YOU! You've waited your entire life to meet someone like this, someone who appreciates your wit, your sensitivity and your proclivity for late night word storms huddled over a keyboard with nothing but the bats and that 18 oz. bar of chocolate to keep you company. She's UH-MAZE-ING!

You are in love. She tells you she needs (insert number here) days to finish reviewing and commenting before she sends Precious back to you for developmental edits. You're too star-struck to tell her you don't know what developmental edits are, but respond in the affirmative and dance away with stars in your eyes. Cuz you're star-struck, remember?

And then?

You wait. You check email. You check your phone messages. You check Twitter/Facebook and anywhere else you can possibly check without actually STALKING your shiny new editor. You chew your nails, eat all the chocolate in the house, drink all the wine in the house and pout because… she still hasn't called you back.

And you feel the way you felt the day after Prom Night… waiting for THAT call.

You know - the one where the caller lists all the wonderful qualities that attracted them to you, only to end with "but I feel there's something missing."

Yeah. That call. That's called "developmental edits." And it does come… exactly when she said it would. She's punctual, if nothing else. And she still sounds nice, as she rips you to shreds.

She points out all the inconsistencies, unresolved conflict, extraneous scenes/characters/descriptions and  excessive use of adverbs. She reminds you to "show, don't tell" and to limit the use of vague pronouns. Or any pronouns where possible. She sends you a list of 47 words/phrases to completely eradicate from  the Precious, reminds you it's all due back by next Saturday and sends air-kisses your way as she cheerily hangs up/concludes her email.

And she can't wait to see you again.

Yes - there will be a second date after all. Once you tend to your wounded pride. Cuz getting an editor is a helluva lot like dating. You keep putting yourself out there, giving it your best, toughing it out while they play Whack-A-Mole with your ego.

Actually, dating might be easier.

Part Two - The Long Term Relationship, coming next week!

Mornings - FAAAAAAACK!

Yaaaa -eeeaaaaawnnnn.

Have I told you how much I dislike mornings? I would say "hate," but being a hater is on my list of things deemed socially unacceptable. Yes, I have a list. My husband updates it for me on a regular basis. I'm not the most socially adept person out there. Guess that's why I write.

So, mornings - yeah. One of the reasons I don't hate them is 'cuz I figure any day on the right side of the grass is a good day. One of the reasons I do hate them is 'cuz it takes me about 3 cups of coffee before I'm sure I won't bite the heads of small dogs and children.

I am the definition of "Not A Morning Person."

Well, except for one particular activity - which I have to say is always best in the morning.  But don't make any mistakes; this is NOT me int he morning (or anytime, for that matter):

If you've been reading along, which I KNOW you have because you love me and find me totally awesome in all my drunken drivel, then you know I was supposed to start driving in to work even earlier then the totally FAAAACKING insane hour my job requires. 

I was going to go straight to work, thereby avoiding all the traffic in the morning and go for a run. We have showers at work. We have coffee at work (if you want to call it that). We have no traffic at 0400 in the morning at work. 

Right? What the hell was I thinking? I haven't made it yet. I tried, but my ass was so firmly glued in bed all week, it was NOT happening. I'm sure it was pretty funny to watch as I shoved my work out clothes on to the closet floor and hit the snooze button. Several times. Because...

FAAAAACK. Oh, said that already. Sorry - still on that first cup of coffee.

I do actually plan on trying again this coming week. Hopefully things will fare better and I have a little less stress on the writing front. Speaking of which, here's where things stand:

First Book - received four pages (in minus 16 font) of questions, comments and revisions from an esteemed colleague that I am trying to incorporate. I'm about a third of the way through on that.

Second Book - thanks to the considerable effort and talents of CP, book 2 has been sent to the industry professional who requested it. Cross your fingers!

Short Story 1 - no takers yet. I have three more submissions pending and if they don't pick it up, I will *as promised* publish here.

Short Story 2 - yes, there is a short story 2. I just wrote it the other day. Needs some polish - and I'm sending it to CP so she can rip it to shreds (she's good at that, she's like a Komodo dragon on word steroids or something), then I'll shop it around.

I have a third story I'm dying to get to - got a few pages down so I can keep the *feels* before I get the chance to work on it. It's going to be fun, too - a real ball-busting riot, so I can't wait to go to work. I'll probably play with it later on today. After I've had more coffee. And some Scotch. 

Meanwhile, The Terrorist is growling and fanning me with his tail, which means he either needs coffee or a walk. So, that's it for now.

Oh, except for Saturday Faves! Happy day - I'm going to hook up the caffeine I.V.!!!

Careful what you wish for...

This whole week has been screwy.

Not in a "slightly off kilter, can't get my feet on the ground" way, but in a "what the fuck did I think I was doing?" way. Add auditory hallucinations and you've got screwy.

It didn't start out that way. In fact, it started out pretty normal. Like, June Cleaver normal. You know, kind of a mash-up of Brady Bunch, Gilmore Girls, It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia? Because that's how my life rolls, most of the time.

Work was normal. My minions attempted to tell me how well they were managing and I conveyed my usual faith in their abilities.

My husband was overworked, overstressed and overly horny, and I employed my always hugely supportive tactics to help him relax.

And I continued on in my normal, professional and efficient way ...

So, what's so screwy about that? Well let me tell you: I got another request for a full manuscript. At 5 o'clock in the morning. I know, what the hell am I doing up at 5 a.m.? Honey, if I have to explain my normal biorhythms to you, you ain't been readin' my blog enough!

Anyway - so, there I am, reading this request, freaking out because I only pitched it on a whim and totally didn't expect to get a request for a full (there's a serious life lesson there, folks!) and my CP is off partying her brain to slush while I've got a manuscript to polish. 

No, I don't blame CP - well, except for not taking me with her, but that's another story. 

I've got six loads of laundry to do, toilets to clean, a dog to walk, victuals to procure and oh, by the way, I'm hearing random buzzing sounds throughout the house. 

Like, bee buzzing sounds. 

Have I told you I'm allergic to bee's? As in, "free trip to the hospital" allergic? 

And before you ask, hell no, I do not have one of those cute little Epi-pens because in 52 years of living I've only been stupid enough to get stung once. Hence the awareness of the allergic reaction. Yeah - makes me look all: 

So - yeah, it's a weird fuckin' week. And I'm sitting here, trying to ignore the buzzing sound, trying to polish my manuscript before I submit it, wondering how long I can delay sending it in and, oh yeah - I'm outa scotch. 

Fuck. It's going to be a bitch of a weekend. 

Late breaking news: The Man Behind The Curtain has returned from slaying dragons, bearing bottles of scotch and rum. My attitude (and the buzzing in my head) has melted away.