I've not left the house since we returned from Spooky's parents last Tuesday. Almost a full week.
And I've worked. But I haven't written fiction. Not since I finished "Pushing the Sky Away," and that was a week ago. I should have had Cherry Bomb finished by midsummer, and, at the latest, the end of August. I've hardly even begun.
When I said on Friday that I'd received the CEM for Pink Delicious, what I should have said was that I'd received an MS Word document. I told my editor I can't edit electronically. I asked that I be sent an actual paper ms. It never occurred to me that no such thing exists. It never occurred to me that the copyeditor didn't sit down and make marks on paper with a red pencil. It should have, but it didn't. What I got in the mail today is a B&W printout of the MS Word file I already have. True, I'm saved the expense of printing it myself, but it's only marginally more useful to me than what I was emailed.
I can't fucking work like this.
And this whole mess isn't going to save anyone time, as I'm still going to be making a lot of corrections of my own to this copy, which someone, somewhere, will have to attend to once this is returned.
No. I will not be a part of the Brave New Future of Publishing.
Yesterday, on Facebook, I wrote, The second most widespread misconception about me: I want to be an outsider.
And there was one especially thoughtful reply, which I'm quoting here by permission. Lindsay Gordon Ebinger wrote, Being on the outside is exhausting, causing one to question the authenticity of social interactions, especially in group situations. At least, that has been my experience. If people believe you wish to be an outsider they feel they have the right to treat you as one, even when you are attempting to join in. It becomes frustrating.
If only I could wake up as someone else.
The Sun is Lying,