(I apologize for the brevity of this note. Today is filled with “family things.” I’m sure you all can relate.)
Pardon my indelicacy, but the editing process can stab itself in the eye with a stick covered in red ants and salt.
I have spent the last two weeks desperately trying to get through the editing of my own book (MY OWN BOOK) and I have had to resort to going to the Ancaster Library in order to isolate myself from all possible distractions. When I was at home, I was doing just about anything to avoid taking my purple pen (yes, I use a purple pen) to my beloved brain-spawn.
But now I feel like I’ve become a local-library regular. I recognize the other regulars. There’s the old guy with the fishing hat that reads the personals from the Star. There’s the really old guy that aimlessly wanders from Fiction to Periodicals and back again, looks confused, then starts chewing on his shirt. There’s the ancient lady that picks through the Harlequin romances to find the raunchiest sex scenes (okay, I don’t know if she’s looking at them for that reason, but I can only guess when I hear her excitedly muttering things like, “Yeah, you RIP that $%^&#$&%#*ing bodice off her, you filthy pirate!”).
And then there is me, Emily Rose open, noticing for the first time that the ceiling is a really interesting shade of off-white.