read 'em and weep

I dragged myself out of bed sometime around eight-thirty, after six hours of sleep (which has never been enough, and now feels like torture when most nights give me eight or nine), and promptly flung myself back into it (carefully) with my laptop and a bowl of cereal. While I ate in bed (which I never do -- either my writing life has relaxed my usual uptight code about such things or I'm coming down with something), I tweaked the synopsis that I finished last night and sent it off to my agent. She got back to me a couple of hours later and we scheduled a call for next week to 'conspire to take over the publishing world', as she put it. At least she's as excited about it as I am -- or at least, as I was, before all the doubts and second-guessing and usual neuroses started creeping in.

But, I realized while I was at the gym, in the post-workout endorphin haze that proved to be good for something despite the pain, that all my doubts and second-guessing are basically the equivalent of what I hated Richard Blais for on "Top Chef: All Stars" all season. I will 'splain the metaphor, for those who didn't watch. Blais was the favorite from the very start; it's universally acknowledged that the only reason he lost his season was because he choked in the finale. So this season, he hated every dish he put out, was sure he was going home in every round (even though he won eight challenges), and was generally so sour and hard on himself that I wanted to shake him and tell him to get a fucking grip.

As is my typical modus operandi, I have become something I despise. So, I'm telling myself to get a fucking grip and stop thinking about how my book can fail, about how it isn't good enough and therefore how I'm not good enough, and how the plot is contrived and the characters are ridiculous and I'm going to have to crawl and beg for my job back. Because really, I don't want to be Blais. And that was a v. good realization to have, even if getting there required an hour of torture from Alyssa and a promise to increase the intensity of the cardio workouts I do on my own. Sigh.

And then, I gave myself the rest of the day off. I need to work this weekend to finish the stuff that my agent needs for the submission, but today was for me. I came home and took care of a few things, with the intention of eating a boring lunch, but it was gorgeous outside, so I went to Joanie's Cafe, sat outside in the sun, and let them cook for me while I started reading a book. I continued to read after progressing across the street to get a pedicure, continued to read after I got home...and as soon as I finished the book, I picked up the next in the series. Somewhere in there I took a break for a sandwich and a cup of tea, and then I finished the second one -- and long story short, I'm halfway through the third.

I'm plowing through Nora Roberts' "Brides" quartet, which I picked up on sale at Borders a couple of weeks ago and was saving as my reward for the first moment I could take a break. So far, they're wonderful -- I probably should have stopped at the end of book two, because now I have a headache and my eyes have that sort of vaguely-strained feeling they always used to get when I went on reading binges. But I must say that Nora, with 190 books under her belt and 300 million copies in print, is one of the rare authors who, even if they're phoning it in at this point, is still consistently good. She can still deliver the emotion and the joy of falling in love, which is a gift.

And before I pull a Blais and start debating whether I'll have that talent after my 190th book, or my 19th book, or whether I even have it now, I'll cut myself off and go to bed. I'll probably finish book three tomorrow, and then debate doing my work (although the jury's still out over whether I'll follow through). Goodnight!