I notice that the good folks at Google are hard-put to match an ad or two to my iFart post. Poor people...
Yes, I am working on THE BOOK. It's overdue, gently reminds Deb, my long-suffering editor. (Gigs, the flu, and most of all, my dad's illness and death have taken their toll.)
Husband equally gently reminded that I go through this same process with every book. This, by the way, is #6:
*commitment (sign the contract)
*self-hating ("why, oh why, did I do this...no one will be interested in what I have to say blah blah")
*exhaustion (too many late nights, coffee and bubble gum)
*common sense gradually returning
*figuring out problems ("now how can I get THIS motif in THAT block size?")
*writing, writing, writing...
*stitching, stitching, stitching (sample projects have to get finished, too)
*absentmindedness (can't find my keys, but I know when gold was first discovered in California!)
*odd dreams -- bigtime. (Or insomnia -- take your pick)
*FINISH -- ship everything out (usually just as the birds are chirping in early morning)
Then start the process all over again with revisions and changes.
There now. Don't you envy the life of an author?
I mutter to myself, spank at the computer screen, do umpteen fabric yardages. (After all, you have to double-check this stuff to be sure it's accurate. That is, before your editor triple-checks it for you.) Wash dishes, and feel guilty. (I should be working on...) Check something, then find myself reading Crazy Aunt Purl...who, after all, knows what it feels like to be "producing a book from my nether regions in two days:"
Then an endearing little note about Queen Elizabeth, normally a beacon of propriety, hugging Michelle Obama -- and having the embrace returned. Look at the Queen's eyes while she's talking to Michelle in the video clip -- she honestly LIKES this woman! Frankly, I don't blame her. Mrs. Obama is like fresh wind in that stuffy atmosphere.
Ooh...wind! And the Pull My Finger business. Hmmm.... nope. Not going there. After all, there is THE BOOK.
So I sigh, brush off the pile of pistachio nut shells that's collected, throw them in the garden (ooh, I should be out there moving the snow aside and checking on the daffs...no, THE BOOK...)
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