Holy Sweet Jeebus, what the hell just happened over the past two weeks? Who was that masked man? The one who swooped in, picked up my quiet little writing life and slung it over his broad shoulders (but not too broad though, and they have that nice definition of muscle that catches all the droplets of water in the shower and directs them down over his hairless, heaving chest and onto the greatness that lies below….) Sorry, drifted off a little there in between my brackets.
But this Masked Thief of all things Normal, has got me flustered. He stole me away to his den of You-Shall-not-have-a -chance-to-write. At all. Not even a little. He stole my desk. My computer, and that stupid board game I had my keyboard resting on cause the desktop was too low. There is no sign either of my lime green office chair.
Who wants a lime green chair and a game of Operation for crying out loud?? Is Masked Thief of all things Normal twelve years old?! That game is not even fun when you are drunk -it’s too damn EASY, and I’m sorry Mr Red Nosed man, if you need to have surgery on a bread basket in your belly then you have all kinds of other issues a scalpel won’t solve.
As for the chair, lime as a colour should only ever be on the fruit. Not on furniture. Ever. It looks like a leprechaun had food poisoning and upchucked all over it.
Okay. Breath taken, cute anime boy. Though the giving birth ship has, thankfully, very much sailed.
It has been a crazy couple of weeks. That’s the bottom line. And it’s all self-inflicted, hence why I am projecting my angst onto an imaginary masked crusader….with great abs and arms that catch the droplets of water in the…..anyway, you get the gist.
Two weeks ago I handed my first manuscript over into the welcoming arms of an editor. I popped my professional editing cherry. Now I’m floating in a little cloud of self-doubt and wonderment, waiting for the MS to come back with undoubtedly, not one single red mark on those precious, precious pages. Cause I’m the worlds best writer, right? And clearly marked for sucksess. Clearly.
Add to the mix, one dose of Let’s move country cause it seems like a great idea. Stir rapidly until your life is a fluffy mixture of Holy shit this a dumb idea and To-Do lists, and then put it into a fan-forced oven at a temperature of I think we packed the cat-oh wait we don’t have cats-what the hell is meowing in box 24?, then bake for approximately 8 weeks whilst living out of suitcases. (No felines were actually harmed in the making of this blog. Mike’s face blows up like a balloon if you say the word cat.)
So, we are off to the land of the free, and home of the somewhat terrifying but apparently brave. The lime green office chair is in a shipping container and Operation is in the rubbish bin. We are moving all and sundry (excluding Mr Red Nose and his bread basket) to a little town in Pennsylvania that looks like it is the twin sister of Stars Hollow in Gilmour Girls. (If you don’t know that show I can’t be friends with you anymore. Sorry. KThxBai.)
In terms of the opportunities this move might afford in the authorial way, the mind boggles and then does a little excited dance. All kinds of authorial, self publishing, writing goodness may await in the land of red and white and god-help-me-I-don’t-understand-grits or gridiron.
I’m standing in an empty house right now – surrounded by those little tiny bits of what-the-hell-was-this type junk that always seems to end up on the floor after a house is cleared out – because the internet is still connected. And it will be, right to the bitter, bitter end bitches. They can take my dog’s ashes but they will not take my internets.
Hubster and I are tired, nervous, stressed, but totally nailing the Don’t Kill Each Other rule right now. I don’t think I hate him much at all at the moment. I think I’ll keep him.
My back is hurting cause there are no chairs in the house and this bench top is way too low, I’m kinda hungry but the only thing left in the pantry is bi-carb soda and icing sugar, and I am drinking green tea out of my gym water bottle cause there are no cups here anymore.
It’s time to go. I’ve got my Imodium and my defibrillator packed. And though I may be discreetly peeing my pants about it, I say to you Masked Thief of all things Normal, bring it on.