Waiting and Whining

The first two cartons of books are coming by UPS, and they left the terminal at Hodgkins, Illinois today sometime after 2:24 PM, so they’re probably in eastern Kansas by now.  As Zero Hour approaches, people keep asking me why I don’t seem more excited.  About all I can say is that if I were to have kept up a constant state of excitement since the day I sent off the file to the printer, I would be a gibbering wreck by now.

That, and that the exciting time was while I was writing the story.  The rest is business, and if I think about the business too much, I can’t help but notice that if it doesn’t fly, I’m going to have to find a job again, and that’s about as depressing as it gets.

It sure was an exciting three months though, from July through September, when I was in the groove and working well, and the characters were helping me along, and the novel was coming together.  It’s a beautiful feeling, doing what you want to do and doing it well.  Then I wrote the last few pages, which had been waiting for so long to get out, and I went into post-partum depression for two days.

A book on ADD, Attention Deficit Disorder, that I skimmed the other day tells me that that is only to be expected.  Yes, I have ADD, which is a major reason that the thought of a real job is such a depressing one.  That’s a huge topic, however, and I’ll save it for another time.

How have I been making ends meet for the past five months, without a job?  I’ve been living on my savings, which are decidedly finite.  While I was writing well, I felt like Alfred E. Newman: What, me worry?  But lately, while waiting for the printer and so on, it’s been on my mind.

So I’ve started substitute teaching, which I don’t think I can stand to do for more than two or three days a week.  Today was wonderful.  Subbed for one teacher in the morning and another in the afternoon, neither of whom had left me any lesson plans.  Whoo-hoo.  If I sound cranky today, now you know the reason why.

On Saturday I’ll be starting a six-week class in beginning Argentine tango, which will be infinitely more amusing.  Tough to make a living on an hour a week, though.

Hemingway used to complain that while he was working on a book, people accused him of being lazy, and that once it had been sent off to the publisher, and he was taking a break, they praised him for being so hard-working.  What a whiner.  A best-selling author, the world at his feet, and he whines.  When I get to be a best-selling author, I may rant and rave a bit, but you sure won’t be hearing any whining.

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