A Watched Pot…
….never boils. Actually it does, if you’ve remembered to turn the burner on, it just seems to take forever when you’re standing over it waiting. Rather like waiting for…oh, I don’t know…an e-mail message.
When we lived in town and I could see the mailbox from the house, I’d constantly be looking out the window if I was home, anxious to spot the mail truck. It didn’t matter if I was actually waiting for some thing. The mailman was apparently a great source of anticipation for me. 99% of the time he delivered junk mail or bills. I should have loathed his arrival.
Now, with e-mail, it’s worse. Especially with a smart phone. As soon as that little e-mail icon lights up to tell me I have a message, I’m checking to see what it is.
To add chocolate to the milk, I’m waiting for Some Thing. That magical, mystical reply on a query sent out on the 15th. Okay, fine, so the agent’s website says to expect a response in one week to three months. THREE MONTHS!!!!!!!!!!!!! But that doesn’t prevent me from continuously checking. I began checking about an hour after I sent the query via their on-line form. I do so with a blend of trepidation, casual indifference, and sheer terror.
“They won’t like it.”
“How can they not like it?!!?”
“What if they do like it?”
“They’ll ask for the full and keep it for six more months and then reject it.”
“They’ll love it. Sell it before the year is out. It will be AWESOME!”
“They’ll love it. Sell it before the year is out. And WANT MORE!” *panic attack ensues*
“It’ll be a form rejection. Have the next agent lined up and ready to go. You know how this works.”
And so on.
*breathe in, breathe out*
And, in the midst of this, never–NEV-ER–take a peak at your Amazon sales rank. Just don’t do it. And then DON’T EVER compare it to anyone else’s. Unless you’re comparing genre to genre, and factor in many other things, it’s just a number. Like age. Don’t. Look. FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT’S HOLY JUST DON’T.
So, right. I’ve been plot noodling The Adorned. Oh yes. *rubs hands in glee* I’ve got stuff. I do, I do. Plot stuff. I’m still mainly a pantser, but I need some direction for this one. I think I may just have it. Now, if ReGi would stop telling Roe to just do whatever she darn well pleases, all will be good. I don’t think I shared this bit with you already, if I did, I apologize. Here, for the year, 15 paragraphs.
Roe blinked her eyes open and immediately regretted it. She rolled to the side to throw up, belatedly realizing her head rested on Fader’s lap which meant the contents of her stomach now decorated his legs.
“Sorry,” she muttered, dragging the back of her hand across her mouth.
He brushed damp hair off the side of her face. “No concern.”
“You’re hurt.” Roe could hear it in his voice.
Fader blew out a quiet sigh. “Just so.”
“Difficult to say. I live yet.”
“Damn.” Roe rolled her head back to try and get a glimpse of his face, but from her vantage point she could only see the bottom of his chin. “Fader?”
His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Next time I tell you to leave, do so without discourse, yes?”
“Bet I will. What happened?”
“How does your head feel?”
“Like I spent the night in a cask,” Roe said. “Don’t avoid my question.”
“And your ribs?”
“Don’t care to find out.” Vomiting had told her enough about their condition. “You?”
His finger twitched against her face. “I live yet.”
And an unrelated bit of music. I caught this on an episode of Banshee. It has become my new obsession song–probably because it reminds me so much of Driev.
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