So my CP and I both received some kicks to our posterior this week.
In my case, I was minding my own business, posting on my favorite black hole of time and productivity when I came across a post from my friend Julie that said, “Diana, email me. I have a message from someone important.” Well, it wasn’t my boss, or my real estate agent, or my Mommy, so that meant one (bad) thing. It was from her editor, who requested my manuscript a good long time ago.
Uh oh. I called Julie, and she said that apropos of nothing, her editor had mentioned that perhaps if I had SO MUCH TIME to post on eHarlequin, I had enough time to pop my manuscript in the mail. BUSTED!
My CP also got smacked this week. A friend of hers (who is a NYT bestseller) got a call from a major bookseller complaining that though she’d ASKED my CP for her manuscript, it’s been a year, she hasn’t gotten the full, and she hasn’t been able to get it out of her head. She mentioned that she’d called the author’s editor TWICE hoping to get her hands on a copy that the editor has. BUSTED! (My CP, properly chastised, swears she’ll get the manuscript to her friend to give to the bookseller when she sees her at an upcoming conference. The darn thing is 1,000 pages long. I hope she brought a big suitcase!)
Very sad, isn’t it? Why do we have such a death grip on these things? My boyfriend went to lunch with us the other day, and told me that our entire conversation consisted of, “We gotta send our stuff out, don’t we?” “Yeah, we gotta do that.” “I promise I’lls end my stuff out.” “I’m just not happy with it.” “It’s really good, stop playing with it.” “I just don’t want to mess up.”
Sigh.
