Greetings from the Lair
I am still trapped in He Who Shall Not Be Named In This Blog’s lair.
Unlike other heroines who have been brought to the lairs of superheroes–such as, say, Katie Holmes in the excellent (except for Katie Holmes’s character) movie Batman Begins–I have not been knocked unconscious.
Except this would have been awesome because, as previously mentioned, my in-laws are here. (Insert obligatory I’m Just Kidding disclaimer for any member of HWSNBNITB’s family who is reading this and thinks now that I would find being given a mind-altering toxin preferable to being in their presence.
Although, seriously, who reading this would not mind being knocked unconscious if it meant being held in Christian Bale’s strong arms? Um, me).
My in-laws have recently experienced some troubling health problems, which is very sad (and partly why we are here). So much of the discussions in the lair have been about what to do about that. My suggestion–hiring Joe Chill to take care of the problem—was not met with the hilarity I expected it to (insert obligatory I’m Just Kidding here. Obviously I do not want to hire someone to murder my in-laws. You can go to jail for that, and as we all know from Paris Hilton, there is no Nutella in jail).
My attempts to lighten the mood go completely unappreciated in the lair. Dark wit is as undervalued here as it has been in other places I have been, such as confession; middle school; showchoir; behind the counter at Rax Roast Beef; Intro to Social Work; and, though I’d forgotten this important fact, at my in-laws’…thus the whole Hideous Booger incident that currently has half of them not speaking to me (or to HWSNBNITB).
But it’s not my fault! I blame my morbid sense of humor on the fact that David Letterman was our local weatherman when I was growing up and used to inform us regularly to seek shelter as it was going to be hailing “canned hams.” Who wouldn’t develop a warped sense of humor at a young age from that?
One night WeatherDave reportedly upset his bosses when he congratulated a tropical storm for being upgraded to a hurricane.
Fortunately, I received the following email from my YA editor about the revised manuscript I turned in at the beginning of last week, just before my departure for the lair:
I love it. It’s so great now, and everything works so well, and it’s nice and sexy!
Yay! What author would not be thrilled to receive such a note from her editor?
Then my gaze went to the next line:
Here are some comments for you:
What? Comments? No! No comments! I do not want comments! Stop right there! Nice and sexy is enough (since this is a YA novel, nice and sexy is a surprising compliment).
But sadly, she went on. And, in grand editor tradition, what followed were two single spaced pages of MORE revisions I have to do (but, really, they are just tweaks.)
Fortunately I am in the lair, where there are no distractions (other than in-laws), so I have plenty of time to work on the tweaks. Given my tendency to make bad Joe Chill jokes, perhaps it is just as well that I have a project to keep me busy (I have to do my adult book revisions, too). Now I will be forced to keep my mouth shut and just write, instead.
I’m so close to being done I can taste it.
And it tastes like chicken.