I had every good intention of printing out my manuscript last night, taking a long, rewarding shower this morning, and then tra-la-la, driving to the post office.
I was going to crank the radio and chant the mantra Eric Luper provided for me last week:
Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker. Send the sucker.
Do you think he wants me to mail it?
Yes.
But am I?
No.
Instead of showering, I’m still in yesterday’s clothes with Saturday hair. Instead of boxing up my neatly printed manuscript, I’m reading it once again, for the THOUSANDTH time, in case I’ve missed anything.
Must.
Stop.
Editing.
And.
Mail.
This.
TODAY!
And perhaps I really should work on my ‘letting go’ issues . . .
