I got my manuscript back, and basically my editor had 25 pages worth of things to gripe about. I had a drink and took a vicutin before I opened the email containing everything she had to say about it, hoping a blissful mood would lessen the blow, but it didn't. I closed her email wishing I knew where she lived so I could put Vaseline all over her face, lace up a pair of Timberland boots and meet her at 3 'o' clock after school.
A few hours later, I am feeling like Sophia in The Color Purple, "I's feelin mighty low..."
I need to work on my manuscript. I need to fix the problems I feared were there that I could not hide from a professional. I have a creative roadblock. My cousin's sick 5 month old robs me of all my creativity. When a wave of genius passes it is usually when she is feeling uncomfortable or needs to be fed. I don't blame the baby for any of this. I blame my cousin. I blame her for having a child she cannot care for.
I have no idea why some people are allowed to have kids, while others dying to have them just can't. It's a sick, sad world out there kids, dress warm.