I went through meltdown after/during last week because I couldn’t take my husband’s advice to disengage. He could see where I was at, and he recognized the lunacy from the days when he built websites. At a certain point, when nothing is working, it’s time to walk away from the computer. It’s time to take a walk, eat some actual solid food (as opposed to liquid diet of coffee and milk), take a nap. Play with the dog. Play with the kids. Scratch that. Run far, far away from the kids because while you were working, their interruptions have helped push you to the breaking point. As sweet as your littlest is when he needs to hug and caress you every 30 seconds, it has turned you into your worst misanthropic archetype. You can’t stand people anymore, and you will bark at them if they ask you innocent questions, such as, “Won’t you come to my elegant dinner party wearing your Galadriel costume?” You will possess all the fearfulness and none of the grace of Galadriel. If the planet Earth unexpectecly exploded, you would cackle with glee until you were obliterated along with everybody else. But then you would be all right again once you were stardust.
Did you notice the little trick of transference I did there? I’m not the evil one; you are. In any case, my book formatting hasn’t been going well. Of course, if somebody had forewarned me that CreateSpace’s Internal Review process was FU, I might not have stressed so much. I might have saved my document as a pdf and examined it carefully with my own eyes to see that it was perfect (except for that one pesky thing, grrrr). I might not have melted down into my pure essence. Then again, if I hadn’t lost the only beautiful, glowing, carefully constructed blog post I wrote all week, I might not have turned into a puddle of goo, either. I’m kind of sick of this metaphor of melting–you? Oh, and don’t ask what happened to the blog post. I might
If it weren’t for all of the above, I might have recognized my success in having aced a difficult math test last week. I might have given myself bragging rights. But I didn’t. Instead, I was despondent. I was pissed, to be honest. No matter how much relief giving up traditional publishing and writing fiction offered my addled brain last summer, I can only conjecture that I still have bitter roots of fiction embedded deep within my ego. Consequently, succeeding in one lowly math class is irritating me. For one reason or another, success is never actually success to me. Succeeding at the calc 3 level or above might do it for me. But, no, it won’t because I might have to arrive at graduate level math/engineering courses in order to feel successful. But, no, that won’t do it, either. I don’t know what will. However, I’d like to break into the nonfiction arena. Maybe if I could write for Wired, I would be at peace with the universe.
Yeah, I doubt it.
In other news, my cover, which I’d thought would never be finished, is mostly finished, aside from last touches in putting together the cover template. Yes, that’s it up above. My daughter Emmie drew it, designed it, and put it together on the template. She wasn’t certain she wanted to do it–she had no idea what was expected of a cover artist. However, I told her to create a line drawing that was design-oriented, and that’s what she did. I apologize for the enormity of the picture. I’m working on the gallery computer, and its browser is so out-of-date that it has decided it won’t allow me to make any changes at all to the image (or, perhaps, my impatience with it did the deciding).
In conclusion, when all else fails, and you have to learn book publishing/formatting from the ground up, when your blog posts vanish into the ether, when you must rely on artists to do what you can’t do, and when your images simply won’t load as you want them to, BASH THE MONKEYS! The monkeys are always at fault. And then whistle a little tune. And if none of that works, lock yourself into whatever private room you have and sob. And don’t forget to utilize hysterical hiccupping. Children do this for a reason. It feels awesome (most likely owing to the restricted oxygen, which makes you feel above-it-all)! And if nobody is there to hear you, you don’t have to worry about sounding/appearing foolish, or otherwise manipulating others into feeling sorry for you at the sight of your face, blotched as it is with tender teardrops.
That’s all. Next week life will be better.
p.s. I just swapped in the final image so the old one wouldn’t show up in searches.