When the Panic Button Sticks...

Nuts in the backroom being bad.

In this morning’s blog I lamented on the sudden arrival of Failure on my couch. I thought the louse wearing the Writhe t-shirt was early… Nope, the boy was right on time.

Before we get to Frank (the sofa-sitting specter of Writhe’s Failure needed a name, so he got one; I hope he freaking enjoys it, too), let me report good stuff.

The second edits of “Ravenscar” (short story bought by Dreamspinner Press) were easy, not time-consuming and not particularly stomach-churning. Please remember, my big, honking huge hangup with dealing with edits. The brain short circuits into panic lickety-split. It’s painful, ugly to watch, and even uglier to clean up after.

Anyway...

I also got a couple of hundred words written on Book Two of my “Lion & Steed” series! Wow, right? I’m moving and grooving with my two main guys and I’m going to enjoy the ride for as long as it lasts.

Now, back to Frank.

I got the first round of edits for Writhe back today, along with a note from the copy editor with “concerns.” I nearly puked. We’re talking projectile vomiting, here. Not kidding. My stomach is still cramping and it’s been two hours.

Mental illness and all this chronic panic disorder crap stinks, ok? It stinks to high heaven and way, way beyond.

To make a painful and ultimately embarrassing story short, the “concerns” were easy fixes that required adding two explanatory paragraphs near the beginning and a couple of sentences  sprinkled out near the end. Thirty minutes and I was done and happy with the additions. They made the story stronger.

Of course, my little panicking brain cells (aka: the nuts in the backroom) couldn’t care less that I wasn’t being a) fired, b) flunked out of the writing industry or c)slammed as a big, freaking FAILURE.

Yeah, Frank, I’m so glad you came.

*shakes head and sighs*

Until tomorrow (when I better not hear one word out Frankie boy)…

Chloe