For the past week, I’ve been lugging around several pounds of manuscript and a handful of pens. Every time I had a break or five minutes to myself, I read through the former and scribbled all over it with the latter.
Last night, I finished my initial run through of Pigeon Drop, made some final notes*, kissed the air in the direction of my husband, and collapsed face first into bed.
This morning, I left the printouts at home. I also, for the first time in over a year, did not stick my bright pink flash drive in my pocket.
I will not be working on my WIP on my breaks or at lunch today.
To be perfectly honest, this wasn’t a deliberate decision on my part, and I’m glad I’d already dropped the kids off when I realized I was totally Pigeonless. I know how it happened—mornings after a holiday is always rushed, plus this was the first day I added an early morning walk to my routine and had to remember to load Janie’s new percussion kit** into my car and had to capture a urine sample from Sunny, which I hope is a one-time deal.*** But still, how irresponsibly scatterbrained can I get?^
And yet . . . this might be a good thing—aside from the time-anxiety shakes and the mild panic attacks I get every time I touch my pocket to check on the flash drive that isn’t there.
Editing, or so I’ve heard, is easier from a certain distance. I’ve lived this book, off and on, for more than a year now, and a little time apart might help me notice the words I’ve read so often that my mind glides frictionless even over the typos. And some perspective wouldn’t come amiss before I start cutting and consolidating in earnest.
Maybe a guilt-free^^ day off is just what I need. The first step in letting go and moving on to the next project . . .
. . . or maybe I can talk my husband into bringing me that flash drive . . .
*Not final final notes, just final I’m-too-tired-to-hold-the-pen-right-hope-I-can-read-this-in-the-morning notes.
**I’d say that this is my karmic punishment for inflicting my early bassoon years on my parents, but that was Mom’s idea in the first place. So I’m probably just a pushover. And I just this second remembered her lesson book is still on the piano—oh, $#!%. There’s your karma right there . . .
***Another part of parenthood no one warns you about. I have no idea what the pediatrician is testing for—lead? Tennis elbow? Barbie addiction?
^RHETORICAL. I repeat, RHETORICAL. We are not at home to any examples, especially supplied by family members, both biological or by marriage contract.
^^HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHhahahahahahahahaha-aha-ha-cough, hack, whew . . . That one’s gonna take some practice.