What I planned to spend the last two months doing was talking about Cherry Crow Children in some form or fashion, mostly in the form of guest-blogging.
What I actually ended up doing, after receiving a notice to vacate because the landlord had decided to sell, was obsessively checking real estate sites in an attempt to find somewhere new to live, discovering that rental prices in our neighbourhood have skyrocketed, deciding on balance that moving Squawk to a different childcare centre might well cost me my job and confirming that we really don't want to rock that particular boat right now, and eventually making an offer to buy the place we're currently in. (I have to say, I endured most of this process by feeling nauseated at the sheer concept of money and routinely collapsing on the couch at each day's end and drinking myself into tomorrow.) But our offer was (eventually) accepted and we're about a month away from settlement (and the opportunity to punch holes in walls) and, well, yes. Property part-ownership here I come.
Meanwhile, Cherry Crow Children is (thankfully) chugging along quite nicely for a book abandoned by its author, garnering a smattering of lovely reviews and ratings.
In trawling through my blog drafts for something on-point to mention, I came across my journal entry for a day, sometime in early 2011, when I decided to attack the final pre-submission edits of "The Wages of Honey":
10:30(ish) I boot the boy out of the house (unfed, because I have no groceries worthy of the name) so that he may hunt down breakfast and I may write. This story is going DOWN.
10:40(ish) I make my first cup of tea. And realise I'm starving, but have no groceries worthy of the name. I start munching on some leftover BBQ Shapes that seem to have survived the night relatively unscathed. Since I'm eating anyway, I check my email. Again.
11:04 I make my second cup of tea, and stare at the notes I've made on what needs to be done to this story. My structural edits always start with a staring contest. I stare at the story, scrutinising where and how I should make these cuts, and it stares back, hiding all convenient locations for cutting or slicing. One of us must blink, sooner or later. We have not yet reached that point.
11:50: I decide to live-blog my deathmarch edits on this FVCKING STORY THAT WILL NOT DIE, DIE ALREADY STORY, DIE.
11:51: The story blinks! I make a teensy tiny cut on page 11. Or rather, I try to. In point of fact I make it through the first pressing of the enter key before the laptop battery dies, taking all my work into the void that is emergency sleep shutdown. Spend the intervening 5 minutes making my third cup of tea. Wonder how many cups of Earl Grey a human body can consume in a given time period before the brain starts to pickle itself in the tannins. Contemplate switching to a herbal tea. Yanno, at some point.
12:49: Story being recalcitrant. Still only on page 13. Unsure how to make events flow. Tongue feels pickled in tannins, or else I would have another cup of tea. Really wish I had more food in the house than leftover (slightly stale) Shapes. Wonder if there are wives for hire. Decide I prolly can't afford one even if there are.
13:07: Tim Tams! Who knew I had Tim Tams? How long have I had Tim Tams? By the love of all things sugary, this is a godsend! Make myself a hot chocolate, and suck it through three (3) Tim Tams in quick succession. Now I do not have Tim Tams, and my belly both hates and loves me.
14:27: page 14. This is really not going well at all. Structural edits HURT.
15:50 Well, shit. Guess it's me who's going down, not the story. But at least it's in a shredded mess on my hard-drive. That totally counts as progress.