As you may (or may not) recall, when we last met with Author X she was dangerously close to comitting manuscript suicide. Her creative well had run dry. She wasn't exactly feeling the loving.
Enter Friday Night. Apparently she received some super-dee-duper (Barney reference brain warp) feedback from an editor at a small press she's been chatting with. An offer may be close at hand.
"We need to celebrate," she told me. "Do something big."
"How big?" I asked.
"Soooo big. I mean, this is IT. Right?"
I hated to be the one to tell her. Far be it for me to kill anyone's buzz. I suggested ordering a pizza. With toppings, since this was a special occasion. Or perhaps a Happy Meal would be fitting.
"Are you for real? Come on! I said BIG. Do you not get Big?"
Bless her oblivious heart. Of course I agreed to dinner minus the golden arches. And of course this is a good thing. It's what I call a stone. Of the stepping variety. If we are so fortunate, us writerly type, these will pile up, form a path and lead us to our salvation.
PRINT.
Stones are the little victories. But maybe, just maybe, after a winter of cold, snowy rejections, one stone can kill a nasty ole' case of the writer's blues.
I'm collecting them too. Building the road. Getting high. Sometimes, getting low. But going along either way.
So we celebrated. Had Dijon mustard on our hot dogs. Hey, I get Big.
Enter Friday Night. Apparently she received some super-dee-duper (Barney reference brain warp) feedback from an editor at a small press she's been chatting with. An offer may be close at hand.
"We need to celebrate," she told me. "Do something big."
"How big?" I asked.
"Soooo big. I mean, this is IT. Right?"
I hated to be the one to tell her. Far be it for me to kill anyone's buzz. I suggested ordering a pizza. With toppings, since this was a special occasion. Or perhaps a Happy Meal would be fitting.
"Are you for real? Come on! I said BIG. Do you not get Big?"
Bless her oblivious heart. Of course I agreed to dinner minus the golden arches. And of course this is a good thing. It's what I call a stone. Of the stepping variety. If we are so fortunate, us writerly type, these will pile up, form a path and lead us to our salvation.
PRINT.
Stones are the little victories. But maybe, just maybe, after a winter of cold, snowy rejections, one stone can kill a nasty ole' case of the writer's blues.
I'm collecting them too. Building the road. Getting high. Sometimes, getting low. But going along either way.
So we celebrated. Had Dijon mustard on our hot dogs. Hey, I get Big.
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