You all likely thought you’d heard the last about my completed manuscript. Bwahaha! I couldn’t let you off the hook that easily.
One of my beta readers survived the task of reading, suggesting, and editing. (That Oxford comma drives the lovely Shirley crazy, so I find excuses to use it). She’s given my book a couple of thumbs up, and as one might expect I toasted myself with a glass of wine.
Now, I’m contemplating my next steps as I await another beta reader’s thoughts.
The characters from the novel are still in my head. Sometimes I hear them begging me for another adventure. To that I retort, “You’re not even published yet! Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” or some such phrase.
Today was one of those days. My younger brother and his wife stayed the night with us on their way from Houston. Texas, to Fort Myers, Florida, where they’re going to pick up their brand new Airstream travel trailer.
They had their adorable dog, Gus, with them, so we kept our cat sequestered in the master suite last night. The two were aware of each other, but no one got chased and neither of them puked from nervousness, and we had a great visit with family.
It was a win-win. Still, I didn’t sleep well, and having the cat on my chest all night didn’t help much.
After breakfast at a local cafe our guests headed to Fort Myers and I came back to Doright Manor for a nap. The cat settled in beside me on the sofa in the den, and within minutes I was out like a light for the better part of two hours.
When I awakened it was as if I were in an alternate universe. The sky was dark, and I wondered if I’d slept the day away. I hadn’t. But a storm had blown in while I was napping making early afternoon look like nighttime.
I looked at the calendar on my watch fearing that I’d forgotten an appointment with the insurance adjuster, but realized that wasn’t scheduled until tomorrow. Then I began thinking about the carpet I’d ordered. It was supposed to have arrived on the 19th. Today’s the 23rd. Hmmm.
The carpet company had required a deposit. Had I made one? I couldn’t remember. I knew I’d gone to their office to do so, but couldn’t remember actually making a payment. The checkbook didn’t have an entry either. Had I used a credit card? Suddenly I was certain that the reason my carpet hadn’t yet arrived was that it had never been ordered because I hadn’t paid a deposit.
I called the store, “Hi, this is Leslie Noyes. I think I ordered carpet from you, but I can’t remember actually making a deposit.”
The woman on the other end laughed, sort of, “We can sure check.”
A couple of seconds later she read off my address and said, “Yes, it appears you paid a deposit using your credit card, and we’re just awaiting delivery of your carpet.”
I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or humiliated or worried for my sanity. I’m going to blame it all on the lack of sleep and the lengthy nap I took this afternoon. I’m going to avoid using sharp objects, though, for the remainder of the day.
The longest word in the English language that doesn’t include the letter e is floccinaucinihilipilification, a noun meaning “The estimation of something as valueless (encountered mainly as an example of one of the longest words in the English language).”
Still, I might take it upon myself to memorize the pronunciation and spelling of this word and upon my death, have it inscribed on the urn in which my ashes are stored. With my luck, the inscriber would misspell it, and with me gone, there’d be no one to notice.
When I went out to check the mailbox Saturday afternoon I encountered this guy.
He might be the largest, most beautiful grasshopper I’ve ever spoken with; although, I think he might be injured. He didn’t even attempt to hop away when I closed in on him. I moved him to the shade, so maybe he can recuperate. At least he’ll be less of a target for birds there.
Yesterday I posted that I’d listened to an alligator’s mating call while sitting on my back porch. A reader asked what an alligator’s mating call sounded like, so here you go:
If I were a female alligator, I’d be all over that.
Today (Thursday) I was sitting outside Sweet Pea Cafe waiting for my to-go lunch to be delivered. As is my custom, I perched on the end of a picnic bench and read while I waited.
A sound startled me and I quickly looked up and to my right, where less than 50 yards away traffic was flowing up and down Tharpe Street. Somehow my brain got the impression that I was in jeopardy of falling off the bench, and I yelped.
The only other customer, sitting well over six feet away from me, looked up at my exclamation, ready to come to my defense. I smiled beneath my mask, shrugged and said, “I thought I was falling off the bench.”
He looked at me and where I was sitting, held up his thumb and forefinger and said, “You were this close.”
Not close at all.
We both laughed. He cautioned me to be extra careful before taking his meal. I told him there were no guarantees. Again he made that sign with his fingers.
This close….
And laughed.
I wonder if there’s a way to make money for all the entertainment I provide? Probably not.
I had a bit of a fright this morning. After sitting in front of my laptop for a couple of hours trying to create an outline for a new book I’m working on, I decided to make a run into Tallahassee for necessities. Okay, I wanted wine, so sue me.
It didn’t take long to locate the wine I like (19 Crimes Cabernet Sauvignon), so after I placed a bottle in my basket I stopped by the pet food aisle and grabbed some cat treats before heading to the checkout line.
I seldom use the self-checkout registers, but with just three items in my cart I thought it would be less hassle. After scanning the items in my cart I looked up at the machine and gasped. There was a wild-eyed masked person looking back at me!
“Hey, you!” I said, rather forcefully.
The young woman who assists with self checkout came over immediately to help, but by then I’d realized that I was the wild-eyed masked person in question. It was my own face staring back at me from a small screen attached to the register.
Laughing, I told her what had happened saying, “I’ll bet this happens a lot these days.”
I’ve sent my novel off to two literary minded friends in two different parts of the world to be read and critiqued. Sending my children off to kindergarten wasn’t this emotionally painful.
Even though I have no illusions of my little manuscript becoming the next great American novel, just as I never imagined either of my kids would one day become president, I hope it has some redeeming qualities; although, I’m totally prepared to do a complete overhaul if it doesn’t.
If my beta readers think my book stinks, I’ll live. Oh, I’ll be depressed for awhile, but then I’ll try to make it not stink. Might need a few glasses of wine to ease the pain, but I have a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon handy. And if Donald Trump could be President, there’s hope for my kids. They’d both do a far better job than he has.
A tropical storm named Cristobal is playing havoc with weather here in the Florida panhandle, dropping torrential rains and stirring up occasional tornadoes. We’ve had a brief respite from the storm this morning, and I’d get out and run some errands while the sun shines, but there’s a paint crew working inside the house to cover up the holes plumbers created while fixing our water leak. I feel like Roseanne, Roseanna Danna.
“If it’s not one thing, it’s another.”
This afternoon the rain is predicted to return and continue through the weekend. We’ve been in drought conditions for several months, so the rain is welcome, but I worry that mushrooms will begin growing out of my ears if the storm lasts much longer.
If we have to have a tropical storm at least this one has a musical name. Cristobal always makes me think “crystal ball” and when I picture the storm in my head I see this:
I hope the fortune teller sees an end to Cristobal in the crystal ball in the near future.
Never will I claim to be the most observant of humans. In fact, my husband of nearly 44 years, Studly Doright, is fond of telling me that I have “awareness issues.” I’d disagree with him if he weren’t so right.
Yesterday I wrote about a woman who, while visiting in my home, thought that when I said that I’d just finished my first novel that I meant I’d just finished reading my first novel.
Okay, I get it. I don’t look all that scholarly, but she was in my home, where literally the first thing one sees upon entering Doright Manor is this:
And this:
Look around a bit and you’d see this:
And this:
And even this:
Oh, and then there are my Star Wars books:
And
The dust is real.
Most of my books are on kindle nowadays, but the evidence that I’m a reader is pretty clear. So perhaps I’m not the only one with awareness issues. Maybe we can start a club.
Praying for Eyebrowz 