Yesterday's lack of sleep, followed by the numerous activities, took its toll today for sure.
I am sore all over, mostly due to the cold, and by the time my alarm goes off I barely manage to peel my eyes open when every single fiber inside me screams for more sleep. I hurt, I ache and most of all I feel too blue to even think about getting up and go about the day's schedule. This, of course, is no valid reason to stay in bed and be lazy for a few hours more, no matter how much my bones protest against rising, for the dogs have no pity for the weak limbed.
Crazily they bounce up and down around the bed, Trin Trin and the giant Dane tugging relentlessly on my blankets until I finally mutter a curse, roll from the mattress -catching myself on the nightstand, just barely- and straighten while whimpering like an old woman.
The alarm still screeches, my mind too much of a blur as I try to make my way around the exuberant pack, now certain of their eminent release. Struggling with the monster Boxer is par for the course on any given day, but now, as I stumble to the door for their noisy release into the yard, I am a hair's breath away from wrapping my hands around her thick throat so I can return to bed. Hah!
I suppress that particular urge, since no matter how much trouble she is, I love her dearly, and force my eyes open just wide enough to go through the morning rituals and head down to the house. Food doesn't appeal this particular morning. As a matter of fact, thinking of it, it hasn't been appealing for days since my stomach is upset for some peculiar reason. But, remembering that I haven't eaten properly in 48 hours, I stuff a sandwich down my involuntary throat and after a little while sit down behind the computer, the way I always do.
I swear that I consider placing matchsticks between my lids, noticing that every few minutes or so they've lowered until I am gazing somewhat dazedly at the words swimming on the screen in front of me. Today doesn't carry the promise of much productivity for me.
The arrival of big brother sends Knight II into a wild frenzy of excitement, forcing me to grab his collar and drag him to my side where he can't hassle the dogs that come pounding down the stairs around big brother's feet.
Forced by my own promise and small measure of guilt at having done nothing in the time I've sat there, I switch to the dreaded synopsis from yesterday and start rereading and polishing the dratted thing. Finally after several hours, we decide that it's as good as it is going to get.
A personal query letter needs to be written by then, since for some reason publishers all request a personalized note from the "pleading" author, while they in turn stick to a standard message of receiving your hard work, and often a standardized rejection several weeks later time and again.
Why is it that these publishers are allowed to make this demand of the struggling author with the accepted explanation that they are simply too busy to respond personally to every submission they receive? Oh wait, I know. Because they offer a service and without them a writer cannot reach an audience.
It is not like I have time to spare to write these dratted queries and synopsis. I assure you that I have other, often time far more important things to do that need to be put aside while I try to oblige all the set rules that I am supposed to follow if I want to have a remote chance of being accepted.
Admittedly, I don't understand that one demand, most, if not all, publisher place on their sites. "Edit and reedit your story until it is perfect before submitting it."
What on earth... Like I would send something that I hadn't edited time and again to make it as perfect as I possibly can, before I finally delude myself into thinking that it's good enough? What self respecting author wouldn't? It is such a redundant demand that it makes me shiver every time I come across it.
Don't they understand writers at all?
And then I'm not even talking about all the alterations that have to be made to any given manuscript for practically every different publisher.
There appear to be no set rules (as in one set for all) as to how a manuscript has to be sent. Everyone has their own personal preference and if a writer wants a chance, then said writer better follow it, or else... which is basically what all the submission facts state.
This company wants the margins to be thus, the other wants the exact opposite... I can never just prepare one manuscript, but need to clutter up my computer with all sorts of different versions so the requirements are met.
One requires genuine dashes and em dashes, while yet another won't even consider a script that has these in them.
Seriously, after going over the variety of guidelines of what feel like thousands of different publishers, my mind is bordering on complete and utter insanity.
It'll dishearten any passionate writer first starting out. Heck, I've been trying it off and on for years, and the sending alone is a hurdle I rarely manage to conquer.
But besides this particular, rather annoying part of sending out submissions to publishers that actually admit to often not reading more than the first page of the several hundreds I have slaved over, there is also the one that really gets my hackles up.
It goes something like this: "We don't accept unsolicited manuscripts from authors without an agent."
It sounds reasonable enough since there are a multitude of writers out there all knocking at their door trying to sell their "product" but you have to be in this particular world for a bit to understand that getting an agent is just as hard as finding a publisher.
They (agents) have the same set of rules to follow, each one slightly different once again. Added to this is another fact that comes into play: On the most part it is rare that an agent wants to take chances on an unpublished author. It is a nasty little truth that after spending months, if not years on finding an agent that dares to take a risk, the author has no guarantee whatsoever that said agent will actually succeed in finding a publisher.
It is a vicious circle. The one won't take the eager applicant without the other, bringing the fledgling author absolutely nothing in the end.
No wonder more and more writers (myself included) are leaning towards independent publishing, if for no other reason than finding an open door in what appears to be a closed off industry is getting practically impossible.
But I'm drifting off course again, the way I always do. Where was I. Ah yes. Preparing my manuscripts.
After several hours of more tedious fine-tuning, big brother is finally able to gather all materials together and send the package off to what we both hope will be an interested party in the near future.
I do admit that the entire process is a lot less taxing now that big brother has decided to come to my aid, at long last. In the past I faced this frustrating part of being an author on my own, and it was never an easy task. It still isn't easy, but better at least.
That done, along with some more searching for a different publisher for yet another book that we intend to start sending out sometime in the following weeks, I finally decide to cease my battle against drooping eyelids and shut the computer down for dinner- once again prepared by the younger sibs.
Though my stomach is still upset, I manage to choke it down and actually enjoy it while slouching in front of the TV and trying to follow the humorous episode of Hotel Babylon and its loony patrons.
Feeling suddenly restless -by the time the show comes to an end- I get up and decide to make pie. For some reason I have a sudden hankering for something sweet and fruity, and since the cupboards are emptying now that the last trip to the grocery store is more than a week ago, I rummage through our meager supplies until I find what I need.
Some boring cookies, smashed into a fine powder are heated in a pan with some butter, sugar and spices, make for a wonderful base, and some vanilla pudding powder, the last two bags stuffed in the back of a drawer, will make a nice creamy layer once some yogurt is added to it.
For the toppings I decide on the only fruits we have at this time. Canned cherries, peaches and pineapple are chopped and mixed as the liquid is heated along with some orange juice. The last few bags of gelatin join the wonderfully fragrant potion, along with several spoonfuls of apricot and raspberry jam.
Putting it all in a dish, the thin base followed by vanilla pudding and then the fruits, I'm most pleased with the end result and shove two large pies into the freezer so the hardening won't take as long as it would if the cooling is hurried along.
I love making treats that don't require an oven. These two pies take less than half an hour and allow me to once again drop into my seat by the TV and wait impatiently for the pie to be ready for consumption. It is delicious and I manage half a serving before I decide to leave the rest for tomorrow, in hopes that my stomach won't revolt at the mere thought of food landing in it.
Not the best of days, but in the end some things got done, and I can try to get some shut eye... on time hopefully.
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