I swear you are killing me.
I’m sacrificing sleep for you. My tendinitis has re-inflamed in your service. Writing projects are stacking up behind you. You ungrateful thing, don’t you think you could toss me a little “request for partial,” after all I’ve done for you?
On Monday, I know for sure that you’re a winner, a poignant exploration of everyday life, something that every woman will identify with. But on Tuesday, you reveal yourself to be complete and utter tripe.
On Wednesday, you win me back with an opening that I know will wow everyone. On Thursday, I realize that this same scene lacks fire and punch, that the pace is lyrical and thoughtful in a world that wants “edgy” and “thrilling,” and that no agent will ever nibble.
And on Friday, I throw my hands in the air and work on my Lent book instead. Or waste time on Facebook and Twitter. Or make a playdate, so I can avoid writing altogether.
Why, Novel, can’t you just behave like a novel is supposed to? Why can’t you follow the rules, and smack my MC’s with earth-shattering stakes? Is that really so much to ask?
What do you mean, “like what”? I don’t know, like if they don’t figure out their troubles, creepy little men with big heads will come down and point fire-breathing tomato kabobs at Jack Nicholson and Glenn Close.
Like, if they don’t get together, Voldemort will enslave all of us Muggles. You know—earth-shattering. Duh.
What do you mean, ordinary life is full of stories worth reading? Well, of course it is. You don’t have to convince me of that—I’m Julianna’s mom. But after all, I’m an unknown author. What do I know?
What do you mean, I have to tell the story I was given? Well, all right, I’ll grant you that, Novel. But you put me in an awfully tough position. You are trying to straddle two worlds, holding up a model of faithful living without shoving religion in people’s faces.
Well, of course it was my idea in the first place. Don’t bother me with details. Fine, just be that way. Phooey on you. I’m going to take a nap.