If you follow Mommy Lite and the regular catastrophe that is my life, you may be wondering...what the hell happened to her? Could it possibly be that everything is okay? No one's thrown up, no one had a melt down, she hasn't offended anybody at the market, or school, or at the gym? Could it be she's run out of ways to make herself LESS attractive to her boyfriend?
The truth is I have managed to do all of these things. I just haven't had any time to write about them.
"Got Milf?" is due to my editor in 2 days and I'm freaking out. Two more days to pull together scraps of information about which I feel incredibly unqualified to give. (I hope that won't stop you from buying a copy though - it'll still be funny - at least that's what my agent tells me.)
The last time I wrote a book I had a friend writing with me. She was also a colleague and my roommate so we sat up till 2am writing and drinking wine on our dueling computers. It was motivating and fun.
I'm all alone on this one. Sitting in coffee houses, carving out niches at my kids' school library and shutting myself off in my bedroom trying to create hilarious pearls of wisdom. (I've discovered the bedroom is the worst place to write because it makes sleepy...it's hard to be productive when you're mid-REM).
I have probably consumed about $200 worth of pancakes at the local restaurant I've haunted throughout this process, in hopes that their yummy goodness will put me just the right fun-loving, happy mood necessary to write something brilliant. (Turns out pancakes are a key part of the writing "process." Who knew?
Anyway, I'm working day and night and hoping...just HOPING, the end result will be some semblance of what I want it to be. And that my editor accepts the manuscript when it comes in.
Accomplishing this monumental task means the world to me. The cost (emotional and financial) of not delivering is something I can't even think about, but it haunts me. Every little voice in my head (I have lots of them apparently and they've been waiting for an opportunity like this to come out and say their piece...) says "you can't do this." "You can't write a book." "Why are you even trying."
I want to punch them all in the face.
I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. Can't I?
I'm at 31,806 words and counting...wish me luck.