The second thing* that told me this wasn’t going to be a great Monday was the peanut butter incident.
I was making Sunny peanut butter toast—she prefers the bread so soft, you can almost get away with closing it inside the toaster oven, saying “Ding!” and pulling it out again—and dropped the jar. It’s a plastic jar, so that was all right, but what the peanut butter did was not.
Peanut butter is sticky. It isn’t supposed to splash.
It was a violation of the laws of physics** and an assault on my favorite pair of slacks, not to mention something of a hilarious miracle to my darling family, each of whom asked me how on earth I’d managed it and one of whom wanted me to do it again, funny Mommy. As you might imagine, I had to restrain Janie from repeating the experiment.
The day, despite several opportunities to do so, never quite managed to turn itself around.***
So, it was both fitting and a relief to remember that today has been declared the first day of International Sh*tty First Draft Week by none other than The Intern herself.
Finally, a celebration for which I’m well prepared.
Throughout the week, The Intern is going to host guest posts by authors who believe (I hope) that crappy first drafts aren’t necessarily proof of the writer’s amazing suckitude. . On Friday, she’s invited everyone to share a selection from a first draft of their own. There will be prizes of varying value for random participants.
I may or may not participate Friday—heaven knows I’m spoiled for choice—but you know I’ll be reading the author posts.
Won’t you join me?
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*The first was the frustrating admission—which I’ve been delaying for a month—that turning forty-one is not going to miraculously clear up my skin. Except for the areas right underneath my eyes, which appear to be appliqués rendered from the neck skin of an Galapagos tortoise, my sebaceous glands appear to be taking the concept of second childhood far too seriously.
**Okay, probably not—but what are the odds?
***A patron with a lot of time on her hands decided her life is all my fault; I was accused of being an approval junkie by someone who was laboring under the impression that this would be news; I lost an entire page of what, in rose-colored retrospect, is the best stuff I’ve ever written in my life, to date; and the cat got himself trapped in the pantry long enough to poop behind the cereal boxes— on the third shelf up, just to make things interesting.
Earful of Cider 