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| Guess who I found on my couch today? |
Failure was sitting on my couch.
He waved to me, asked for a spot of tea (because apparently Writhe
failure is British) and went back to watching “Good Morning, America.”
Instead of shrieking, calling 911 or letting 15 pounds of curls and
teeth (that would be my dog) at him, I simply dropped my head and sighed. The
bastard was early.
With the release of each of my novels, a specter of Failure arrives.
Usually they at least have the good manners to knock on the front door before
barging in. I’ve come to expect the knock, often I have punch and canapés
waiting for them.
But sometimes, like today, Failure just pops up on my couch, days
early, and hungry for something he knows darn well I don’t have in my kitchen.
“I’ll take two sugars with that, dear,” Failure calls out from the sofa
with an ice cold smile meant to intimidate.
It works.
Even my bone marrow’s sporting chill blades now.
I’m a freaking coward when it comes to Failure. Always have been,
probably always will be. Unfortunately this self-awareness does diddly-squat in
addressing the creep currently sitting on my couch wearing a Writhe
t-shirt.
Stomping into my kitchen, I mutter a curse with my every step. I am not
happy.
Usually, each novel’s Failure doesn’t show up until the edits arrive.
Normally, it’s the week or so between returning the edits to the publisher and
the book actually being released that the expected knock rattles my front door.
Apparently, Writhe’s Failure is a pro-active son of a bitch.
Goody.
“Will you be making crumpets?” You-know-who crows from in front of the
television, little sparks of doom and gloom spitting everywhere. “I do love
crumpets.”
It’s going to be a long day.
Until tonight…
Chloe
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