When you've got a manuscript on an editor's desk, you see life a little differently.
Every time you get a spare moment, you practice the elated sound you'll squee when the editor calls to offer you wads of cash. Usually, you do this in your head, but occasionally it requires an actual squeal, hopefully not at your day job.
You imagine what you'll do with the wads of cash you'll have after you sell. Maybe you'll pay off your college loans. Maybe you'll pay someone to actually make your website look professional. Maybe you'll quit your day job. Maybe you'll buy a new car. Or a beach house. A big one. With a matching yacht. (We writers dream big.)
But, the flip side is that every time you see a big white envelope sitting on your porch when you come home, your stomach drops, your palms sweat, and you just know the editor has returned your manuscript in your Self Addresses Stamped Envelope, and all your dreams of giant beach houses and boat slips and the life of leisure go *poof* and you get ready to be in a funk for a few days.
There was a big white envelope on my porch yesterday. I saw my beach house flash before my eyes and felt the sting of tears. I approached the porch, hands shaking. I picked up the ominous white envelope.
It was a shipment of some nail polish I'd ordered.
Close one, but I've at least got a little while longer to practice my squees.
You are currently browsing the monthly archive for April 2008.
I got new pants this weekend. They have skinny stripes, which is pretty much ok for the most part, except that it sort of makes my butt look like one of those magic eye pictures, you know, where you squint really hard to see the 3D image pop out from the picture. I can never get those to work, but people tell me they're cool. Anyway, I guess at least today I have an excuse other than "my butt's real big" when people start squinting at my rear. They're just trying to make the magic eye picture pop out. Of my butt. Yay for new pants.
(And, no, I'm not posting a picture of my magic eye butt. You'll just have to use your imagination.)
Image via WikipediaWell, I've finally taken the plunge: I've taken everything from All Consuming and everything from Book Crossing and merged them all into a gigantic conglomeration of every book I've read since graduating from college. Where? Shelfari.
I resisted for quite a long time, mostly because when Shelfari first went up, it had the annoying habit of spamming me whenever anyone who had my address in their address book joined. It sucked, I shook my fist muchly, and promised I'd never support them.
Well, I can't help it. It's a cool site and I'm consolidating. Plus, when I'm a big famous author, I can link my profile to my author page. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.
So, if you aren't still shaking your fist at Shelfari for spamming you at its inception, join me.
P.S. If you want to join me anywhere else on the intertubes, check out my sidebar where it says My Other Spots. That's a listing of everywhere I am on the web. Stalk me, it makes me feel special.
I resisted for quite a long time, mostly because when Shelfari first went up, it had the annoying habit of spamming me whenever anyone who had my address in their address book joined. It sucked, I shook my fist muchly, and promised I'd never support them.
Well, I can't help it. It's a cool site and I'm consolidating. Plus, when I'm a big famous author, I can link my profile to my author page. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.
So, if you aren't still shaking your fist at Shelfari for spamming you at its inception, join me.
P.S. If you want to join me anywhere else on the intertubes, check out my sidebar where it says My Other Spots. That's a listing of everywhere I am on the web. Stalk me, it makes me feel special.
Image via WikipediaRobbie and I were half TV watching, half hunching over our laptops the other day when a commercial came on touting the newest birth control pill. This one was promising relief from emotional swings caused by premenstrual something-sciencey-sounding.Robbie, like a dog who's just heard the kibble bag rattle, lifts his head up from behind his laptop screen, tilts his head, and goes, "HEY! Did you hear that?" He then stares at me as if God himself has just reached down from heaven and dropped into our laps the manna that will make our relationship miraculously perfect: no PMS.
I was kind of PMS-y, though, so instead of responding, I just gave him a dirty look and went to the kitchen to forage for chocolate. I guess we'll never know.
About
My name is Sonja Foust. I’m a romance author and internet dork. More?