Kittens, my stomach hurts. For some stupid reason, I decided it would be a great idea to write a book, then try to get it published. I just wanted someone to mail me a check and tell me what time to be at the bookstore for my book signing. I didn’t actually want to TALK to an editor. But no, that’s what I’ll be doing tomorrow. Conversing with a real, live publishing giant who lives in NEW YORK. She probably never uses the word, “potty”, and wouldn’t go dumpster diving for a coupon if her life depended on it. Somehow, I have to convince this high-falutin city girl that I can write a book that she would be able to sell. Yeah, that’s totally going to work.
I’ve been trying to get JD to answer the phone in a high-pitched voice and pretend to be me, but he’s not going for it. What if she asks me a question and I don’t know the answer? What if she uses a word that I don’t know? What if she wants to Skype and sees that I’m a 79 year old woman wearing pj’s and drinking a beer at 9 a.m?
What if she publishes my book and I have to go to NEW YORK and meet her and then my book becomes a best-seller and Matt Lauer wants me to be on the Today show and I go and it adds 10 pounds to my size 16 self and I everyone makes fun of me and I become known as the fat writer that broke the Today show couch?
No wonder Hemingway drank so much.
I’ll let you know on Monday how it went. The hangover should be done by then.