Actually, the whole sleep thing is leveling out a bit, so the title does not refer to my general exhaustion. Which isn’t very general, it’s kinda specific, like right around 4:00pm in the afternoon.

No, it’s that I am taking on another big writing/editing project for myself to maybe make something happen, and I’m a wee bit overwhelmed. I’ll do it, though, and maybe something good will happen.

Meanwhile, the Champion Agent is rooting for me all the way, which is awesome.

But I might just be buried for the next few weeks. Not sure.

Saturday afternoon, sometime between the last panel I attended and the first tequila shot I did (oy. big mistake), I finished revising That Subtle Knot. I sent it to my agent this morning, and hope it works for her as well as it does for me.

So yay.

And now I gotta figure out what I want to write next–I’m really hankering to the write more of On Bold Adventure (and yes, PIC, I will change the name–it’s way too Louis L’Amour right now), and might just go for that while I suss out more of what I want to do with the contemporary.

But now? Now a wee bit of this would not come amiss:

I crack myself up. Our hero has just gotten a knife, with which he is confronting a Group of Ruffians:

“Drop it,” one of them said. It was the ugliest of the group, which was a feat in and of itself.

“He’s quick, that he is,” one of the others said in awe.

“Scared of him?” Ugly mocked. He kept in place, though, his eyes fixed on the knife in Alasdair’s hand. “Drop it, or . . .” Apparently his imagination was on par with his looks.

“No. What is going to happen,” Alasdair pronounced, “is you are going to leave us unharmed. Hurt us,” he gestured with the knife, “and I will see all of you hanged.”

“You?” Ugly spoke again. “Who’s gonna stop me?” he asked, making his intentions known as obviously as if he had announced ‘I am about to get violent.’ “You?” His scorn was evident. “You can fool them as were in the army, but no army man was ever man enough to beat old Sid.” He poked himself in the chest. “Three times county champion.”

When my son was small, like four years old kind of small, he would say he was allergic to “cats, dogs and dingos.” We had no idea where the dingos thing came from, it’s not like his parents are Aussiephiles (although one of us is an Anglophile, guess who that one is?).

But now it is raining cats, dogs and dingos, and I have to go out in the weather, ugh, and do two errands.

Things are better than they were, but all kinds of stuff has been kicking my ass, so it’s been hard for me to focus. BUT the Delightful Phone Friend read the first 100 pages of the revision and said they were fabulous (that’s her word of choice, but she really meant it). Makes me want to do the remainder real quick.

Anyway. Off to buy things and listen to people and stay as dry as I can.

I still love this book, and love the characters (plot? who needs a stinking plot?):

“Why did you start taking the opium?” she asked after they’d been on the road for about half an hour.

“Why does anyone do anything?” he replied, waving his hand in an artless way just to annoy her.

She huffed in front of him, and he felt her spine stiffen. She lifted her right hand and began ticking reasons off on each finger. “Money. Guilt. Kindness. Love. Responsibility. Pick one.”

It felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. “Hatred,” he said in a whisper.

“Of whom?” she snorted. “Surely you would be able to cut down anyone who stood up to you.”

“Of myself.”

Her hands dropped to where he was holding the reins, and she rested them there, offering a passive comfort that soothed his heart. He wouldn’t have been able to take it if she was pitying.

She didn’t speak for another few minutes, and when she did, her voice was matter-of-fact. “My father used to talk about the damage self-hatred could do. He said that it was our duty to love ourselves, imperfect though we knew ourselves to be, because it meant we loved all mankind.”

“I don’t,” Alasdair bit out. “In fact,” he said, feeling his chest tighten, “I cannot love a mankind that destroys each other for the sake of land and who rules whom, and love myself when I know what I am capable of.”

It sounded like she was holding her breath. “What are you capable of?”

Living when everyone I care for dies. “You should know that for yourself by now: Buying women at auction, not keeping my promises, selling things that don’t belong to me.” For drugs, he added. He laughed, a laugh without humor. “And that’s only in the past twenty-four hours.”

It was pointed out that I’ve been quiet lately, which is true. And I wish I could say it’s because I’m working on some fabulous projects, but it’s much more mundane:

I rejoined Weight Watchers. And I’m too hungry/crabby to post anything fun.

Unlike a lot of folks, I gain weight over the summer. I’m traveling more, walking less, with the son more than I am usually, so not heading to the gym–plus there’s barbecue and wine and such. So I had a last food fling in Philly, with cheese steaks and ice cream and a soft pretzel that made me want to cry, and then I went back to points and baby carrots. It’s going well, but I’m grouchy. Grouchier because I know I should be editing faster than I am, and grouchier still because I cleaned my keyboard, and now my space bar key needs a really hard thump to get it working.

And I still haven’t seen Duplicity.

When I get my groove back on, and am less crabby, you’ll be the first to know.

I might be feeling better, not sure. I do know I am going to do some reading/editing today, in-between seeing a long-distance friend and some other errands. Which is good, all I need to do is make sure the story kinda goes together and is under a certain word count, and I can send it off.
Piece of cake*, right?

I promise to return will full-sized rants/updates soon. Life has been more than busy lately.

Megan
*This is one of my favorite colors ever. I don’t know why I love green so much, but I do. Just seeing the shade makes me happy.

It’s an oft-repeated quote to “murder your darlings” when it comes to editing. And, apparently, I like nothing more than to follow directions.

I’ve murdered over 12,000 of the little suckers, and am printing out the bedraggled result so I can try to tie everything together.

Wish me luck. And alcohol.

Here’s one bit I left in:

She fell into Alasdair’s arms.

It was not an elegant rescue, the kind where the noble prince gathers the humble milkmaid gently in his arms and consecrates the moment with a kiss. Her elbow landed smartly on his head, his arm muscles stretched and protested under her weight, and for a moment he was convinced they were both going to end up in a heap on the sawdust-strewn wood floor.

He staggered, sliding her down his body until her feet touched the floor and she was able to stand on her own. He reached up to rub the sore spot on his head, and then clasped her by the arm to keep her from falling over. “Are you all right?”