And it was all going so well... OK, so not 'well' in the traditional sense, but it was actually going. Yes, that's right, Book Number The Fifth is about to lurch to a slightly embarrassed halt, like so much spaghetti hoops on burnt toast.
And the reason I have to abandon my tome of naughty wonder, only nine pages in? The page proofs for FLESH HOUSE are supposed to be arriving today, clattering through my letterbox and demanding to be read and covered in red pen before the 9th of January.
Maybe not 'covered'. I swore to myself that after the pain in the backside I was about the second draft, there was no way in Hell (or Kirkcaldy) I was going to obsess over every last word in the page proofs too. Not like last time. And the time before that. When I also swore I wouldn't be a picky bastard. Then was.
Apparently some writers just skim their page proofs, then fire them back with a big smiley face drawn on the coversheet. Jammy, sensible buggers that they are. No agonising for them, which frees up much more time for wine and cheesy nibbles.
Do you think it's a coincidence that 'nibbles' and 'nipples' are almost the same word?
Anyway, these page proof thingies are coming at a horrible time:
But I have no one but myself to blame - I was far too picky during the edit, and now I have to reap the whirlwind. I am a windy reaper.
It's a romantic image, isn't it?
Labels: Book Number The Fifth, Flesh House, ramble, Whinge, writing