Back from helping Sparkly Hubby with his busy, busy, business this Christmas. Back to writing, and editing. Back to hating my manuscript. All is well with the world.
My peeps have been rummaging around in my pea brain, striking against the inside of my cranium. They seem kind of pissed off -- ignored, abandoned. Not that I blame them; here we were, a team, the bunch of us, off on a roll. First draft, done, ah hah! No problem. Then, dropped, rolled like a gutter ball at glo bowl night, watching as the 7 pound sphere rolled away into the night like a dropped beacon.
So I understand why they're mad. But it's not as if they were forgotten, no, they were the reason I put the wrong date on the mailing, why my direct mail was late. I'll even blame my peeps for my ad rep placing ads on the wrong date -- them, I blame them all My peeps -- them, all them! In my head wracking around -- distracting me from my j.o.b.
I am the girl in GLASS, Ellen Hopkin's novel. I am the plotting meth addict, planning a score after a forced hiatus, though my drug of choice is a keyboard and a fictional boy named Graham. I am feeling the adrenaline pulse through my veins as I plan my reunion with my peeps; oh yes, it will be sweet.
Just as soon as I feed Sparkly Junior his breakfast.