Friday afternoon, just before I left to take my daughter and her friend and their two horses to an all-weekend pony club clinic four-and-a-half hours (one-way) away, my editor finally, finally, oh-thank-you-heavenly-powers finally, got back to me with her comments on the rough draft of the sequel to The War That Saved My Life.
I printed off my editor's email (four pages, single-spaced), grabbed the manuscript, and read them both closely while I was supposed to be doing other things. (Me: "Sorry I'm reading this at breakfast, I don't mean to be rude, it's just important to me." Other Mother: "What is it?" Me: "My novel manuscript." Other Mother: (thinking) pretentious git.) Sorry about that. But I waited a long time, not very patiently, to hear my editor's reaction, and also all of April was full of All The Things, and I couldn't wait until Monday, I really couldn't.
Also, having all the my new book thoughts swirling violently in my head is what kept me awake during the drive home, while both girls snored.
I likely won't start the revision today, not the least because it's high school districts for tennis.Lately I'm spending all my days at my daughter's stuff and I'm soaking it up; she's looking at colleges now. Last weekend another mother asked, "What will you do when she goes away?" and I said, "Howl. Curl up and cry, then go to bed for two weeks. Then ride my horse and go to a show and drink box wine with my women friends," and the other mother nodded in wholehearted agreement.
(Box wine is an eventing thing. Nobody wants glass bottles around horses; it's such a pain when you break one, and that happens more often than you'd think. Seriously. In Florida last year, a two-time Canadian Olympian was bringing a very nice bottle of wine into the barn for my friend, as a thank you, and he (the Olympian) accidentally cracked it on the wheel-well of his rig and sliced his thumb open, deep. He bled all over; we had to hose down the concrete. I advised the ER, but the C.O. said he didn't have time for that, he had six horses to ride, so my friend's groom rummaged through a tack trunk and found some superglue, and glued the gash shut. It worked. We all decried the loss of wine.)
Also? My son comes home on Friday, and then it will be Summer. I have plans for being with him, too. The book will come. I'll work on it in odd moments, specially timed to tick people off.
I printed off my editor's email (four pages, single-spaced), grabbed the manuscript, and read them both closely while I was supposed to be doing other things. (Me: "Sorry I'm reading this at breakfast, I don't mean to be rude, it's just important to me." Other Mother: "What is it?" Me: "My novel manuscript." Other Mother: (thinking) pretentious git.) Sorry about that. But I waited a long time, not very patiently, to hear my editor's reaction, and also all of April was full of All The Things, and I couldn't wait until Monday, I really couldn't.
Also, having all the my new book thoughts swirling violently in my head is what kept me awake during the drive home, while both girls snored.
I likely won't start the revision today, not the least because it's high school districts for tennis.Lately I'm spending all my days at my daughter's stuff and I'm soaking it up; she's looking at colleges now. Last weekend another mother asked, "What will you do when she goes away?" and I said, "Howl. Curl up and cry, then go to bed for two weeks. Then ride my horse and go to a show and drink box wine with my women friends," and the other mother nodded in wholehearted agreement.
(Box wine is an eventing thing. Nobody wants glass bottles around horses; it's such a pain when you break one, and that happens more often than you'd think. Seriously. In Florida last year, a two-time Canadian Olympian was bringing a very nice bottle of wine into the barn for my friend, as a thank you, and he (the Olympian) accidentally cracked it on the wheel-well of his rig and sliced his thumb open, deep. He bled all over; we had to hose down the concrete. I advised the ER, but the C.O. said he didn't have time for that, he had six horses to ride, so my friend's groom rummaged through a tack trunk and found some superglue, and glued the gash shut. It worked. We all decried the loss of wine.)
Also? My son comes home on Friday, and then it will be Summer. I have plans for being with him, too. The book will come. I'll work on it in odd moments, specially timed to tick people off.
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