So I’ve been on a Google binge. Self-publishing related. I’m having book anxiety. It’s not that it’s not finished, it’s that I need someone to read it. It can’t be someone who knows me, or reads this Tumblr. Complicated. I read this article about ISBN numbers and e-books that totally freaked me out. And THEN I read this other article about how it’s impossible for anyone to know if their own work is finished. Good enough. Ready. And it went on to explain that most people get that wrong, and that the worst thing an unpublished writer can do is self-publish a book that’s not ready. So I’m kind of worried and focusing on cover art right now. Which, apparently, is about as important as what’s actually written on the pages.
Last night I found out that there’s a guy who lives across the street from me who teaches at Smith and is a poet laureate. Maybe he doesn’t have anything to read right now. I should explore that.
The dog in this photo is my brother’s dog. She turned ten in September. We never put her on a leash because she’s so responsive and attentive and well-behaved that it just isn’t necessary. She’s Bean’s primary experience of dogs. And of course Bean adores her.
On Thanksgiving my cousins were here and they brought their new puppy with them. Said puppy is on a leash. We introduced the dogs to each other and it went as well as those things can go - they’re both female - blah blah blah.
My cousins let Bean hold the puppy’s leash for most of the day. Which thrilled Mommy’s little Bonaparte. And apparently it made more of an impression on him than I’d realized, because last night he got out his wooden-handled jump rope and tried to tie it to the belt loops on my jeans.
Bean?! What do you think you’re doing?
I’m putting you on a leash, Mommy!
Oh. No. No, honey. Please don’t do that. You don’t put people on a leash.
BUT WHY NOT?
Because it’s not nice. Do YOU want to be on a leash?
NO! BUT I’M ANGRY.
Angry? Why?
I’M ANGRY BECAUSE I DON’T HAVE A PUPPY ON A LEASH.
OK. Um. … How about some cookies and cocoa?
My house is technically one-story, but there’s a huge finished basement downstairs. That’s where I set up my TV and whatnot. There’s a futon and pillows big enough to sit on and a couple of rocking chairs. We spend a lot of time down there. Bean considers it his room. It isn’t where he sleeps but it’s where he keeps his books and toys.
One night last week we were down there. We had just finished watching UP. I was trying to figure out what we should do next. Bath? Cookies? Cocoa? A book? Another video? I kept asking him questions and he kept ignoring me and making a train out of his Legos. So I figured I’d just relax and read my book. Ten minutes later, he says:
Mommy? Can we go upstairs? Please? Because up there it might be Christmas! It might be Christmas and there might be presents!
