Someone just left me an oozily sarcastic comment about an, shall we say, irregularity of actual posting activity, as well as a possible proclivity toward purse-posts. Usually I'd respond to such a barb with with something equally as sarcastic, like maybe "the fact that my busy day doesn't allow time for leaving jaunty "you're lazy" messages on the virtual property of some person I 've never even met leaves me aching for a purpose." Or else I'd roll my eyes, but then obsess about the hidden truth of the comment, and then possibly cry, and then definitely call you a bitch behind your back to whomever would listen.
But you know what, wife and husband of 24 and 23 who left me that comment? You are right. You generously support my artwork while I sit around and lament about how dastardly writer's block can be while watching The Office in my pajamas at 2 PM licking the cream out of the insides of yodels.
You two are awesome and I am remiss. I don't even really have a good excuse this time.
The book is done and I've been on this sort of loooong exhale for about two weeks. Very much in limbo. Still completely expecting the first and only big reviewer to piss himself laughing when he realizes how much time he's going to save on the writeup, because it only requires one word.
I've seriously been thinking about that review for a month. But I figure that now that I've written it down, nobody can use it. It won't be original anymore. Haha Snarky McLazyface, the teen-memoir-despising reporter. Incidentally, one of my alltime favorite book reviews comes from grand dame Dorothy Parker, who wrote of The Cardinal's Mistress, "This is not a novel to be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force."
I also have a special place in my heart for Sir Thomas Beechman's candid musical assessment of
Beethoven's Seventh Symphony: "What can I do with it? It's like a lot of yaks jumping about."
But when I start to get nervous about people hating the book so much they will burn the thing, I try to remember Kurt Vonnuget's wisdom: "Any reviewer who expresses rage and loathing for a novel is preposterous. He or she is like a person who has put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae." God I love that image. And God I love hot fudge sundaes. More to come...