Dear Editor Cindy, You Can Stop Crossing Your Fingers
Dear Editor Cindy,
You probably heard a rumor that I might not finish my book. Struggling through the final chapters of a manuscript can be tough work. But I assure you the rumor is patently false. As of yesterday I typed the final words of the epilogue.
If I hadn't been through this process before, I'd be celebrating with wine and chocolate (well, that is if I drank wine on U.S. soil; for some reason I only imbibe when I'm traveling abroad). Anyway, this time I know better. These final keystrokes are not an end but a beginning. You'll send the manuscript out to two readers (but if it's okay with you, please don't pick Reader 2 again. She didn't seem to appreciate my genius. Just hire Reader 1 and Reader 3 and we'll be fine.)
You're probably on vacation and won't get this note until my manuscript has been sitting on your desk for a month. In the meantime, I promise not to email you every day and clog up your inbox. I'll be good and keep it to a bi-weekly inquiry. And instead I'll send letters to people like Mr. Billy Coffey. He just did a marvelous giveaway of our first book, Stone Crossings. You should check him out. I'm not kidding; he's an up-and-comer. Why, I wrote to him already and here's what I said...
I'm so flattered that you want to be writer-me when you grow up. That's pretty cool. Really.
I just have this... well... this concern... I'm kinda wondering (quietly, see) if you could stand the pressure to sometimes wear a dress and heels (personally, I don't mind dresses, but I can't stand high shoes; they hurt my knees and make me feel like a wanna-be giraffe). The way I see it, you're more the cowboy-hat type— spinning tales by the fire. Tales that could make a man weep into his coffee or lose his chewing tobacco in a moment of pure hilarity. [you can read the rest of the letter here.]
When I'm not busy writing letters to talented people like Billy, I'm going to write lots of poems. Like this one for last week's 'not' prompt at High Calling Blog's Random Acts of Poetry...
You are not the blond
beauty I'd been taught to
believe in, Renaissance-buxom,
fawning over my every word
and feeding me grapes while
I sop up inspiration from the
sweat of your pores. I wish you'd
stop yawning, picking your teeth
and flicking stray peach skins
over my notes. Who can work
in the presence of such disdain,
who can stay sane, pen the next
masterpiece while your eyes
look so vexed. You are not
the helpmeet I ordered, not the
glass of red wine nor the rich, fine
chocolate they promised in sonnets.
I bet money you like it this way, wielding
a tray of miniature mincemeat pies, not
lifting a finger to help me swat flies.
Your Favorite Writer for InterVarsity Press, L.L.
'God in the Yard' notes photo, by L.L. Barkat.
Monica's Pilgrim Longing
Sally’s Skinny Dipping
Jim’s 76th and Tidbits
Ann's The Din Undoes Us
Milton's To a Friend, on the Death of Her Father
Marcus's As the Deer
Claire's Untangling and Twisted Tale
Tony's Country Rain
Cindy's Lucid Thoughts
Deb's Prodigal Mothers
Simple Country Girl's I Do Not Have