This morning, when I got up, it was sunny. I'd taken the day off work to make revisions and headed to Starbucks, plunking away on the keyboard and sipping bold coffee in a "for here" cup. Things were going pretty well until I got the email from my BFF, to whom I'd submitted three revised chapters.
She didn't like them. She wants Mr. Darcy and I gave her Mr. Rogers.
I made an emergency tweet to Carol, in my critique group, who has Fridays off, and we met for lunch 20 minutes later. "Okay, yes," she said, "I thought it was good, but what she said is better."
I stared out of the dark gray clouds rolling in. Yeah, I know what she said is better, but I wanted sympathy. And commiseration. And maybe encouragement. Carol was wise enough to give me that, and still be on time to pick up her daughter, forty-five minutes later.
I couldn't do any more revisions. I have to wait and let it settle in, then the ideas will start and I'll begin again. I left and went to the grocery store. By the time I came out, it was second-time rain; that is the kind of rain that comes down so hard, it bounces back up so it can rain down a second time. I sloshed to my car, my hair plastered to my head, and tossed in the soggy grocery bag. I was wet and it was only 46 degrees outside, so cranked the heater dial up to the "Belize" setting, pressed my foot down to "Ignite Afterburner," and flipped the wipers to "Warp Eight."
To top matters off, there is an eight inch long slug sliming along the outside of my sliding glass door and the cats are taking turns leaping up to claw it off. Boooying Booooying Boooying.
Not an ideal start to a three day weekend, but better than a tornado.