They say writing a book is like giving birth—excruciating, exhilarating, exhausting, and what the fuck did I get myself into?
They say revising a book is like raising a child--excruciating, exhilarating, exhausting, and why the fuck can’t I get this right?
They say selling a book is like putting a kid through college on the average median salary in the United States-- excruciating, exhilarating, exhausting, and how the fuck will I ever make this happen?
They say waiting for that editor, who you know will treat your book like it’s her own child, to tell you that she wants it is like…. Actually, they don’t say anything. They just hold their breaths and wait until they hear word, or until they turn blue in the face and pass out on the kitchen floor, cracking the ceramic tile, which ever comes first.
To all of you writers with hard heads, who refuse to give up on your lost children, I say to you-- Forget tough love and spoil yourself rotten, at least for today.
Oh, and watch as many hours of TV LAND that you want. You earned it.
