Dear Writer’s Diary,
Yesterday was a doozy (fyi, did you know ‘doozy’ comes from ‘daisy,’ not originally from the Duesenberg automobile, although that car’s fabulousness added to the word’s luster? Sure you did).
I did laundry, wrestled with real estate mishegas (Yiddish word for craziness; I have been channeling my Inner Jew with all this mess. Just don’t get me started on ‘fakakt,’ although I have no idea how to spell it), wrote a smidge, starting reading Dead Beat by Jim Butcher (LOVE IT!), worked out, then had an actual outside-of-the-house DATE with my husband. Sushi and chocolate. Can’t beat it with a stick.
I am already missing the Picky Vegetarian, who leaves Portland, OR, to head to Laos and Cambodia by way of Hong Kong.
My agent has promised to send out the pitch letter for Lessons In Love next week; then I get to be on all kinds of tenterhooks (btw, I wanted to find the definition of tenterhooks, and here’s what I got: “one of the hooks or bent nails that hold cloth stretched on a tenter.” Big help, thanks).
My son returns from his Dote Week down in South Jersey today; I cannot wait to hug him.
I would write to you about how I feel fat, scared, confident, insecure, nervous, smart, and ochlophobic (afraid of crowds), but I pretty much do that in my regular posts.
Love,
Megan
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OK, so what’s a tenter, then?
I hate definitions like that. French-English dicitonaries are the worst! “A” means “B” and then you go to look up “B” and the definition is “A”.
Good luck on your nerve-wracking days. You’ll be OK. I swear. Really.
(I dont’ know how to spell Fakacht either, but my MIL uses it all the time. So funny to see it here.)