I’m six months out from the release of my first mystery novel—wait a minute, had to put my head between my knees for a minute, because that still makes me feel faint sometimes—and after a four-month crash course in “ohmigod, how do I promote this thing?!” I’m finally coming to terms with the scope of activities and opportunities available to me.
Notice that I said “coming to terms with.” I said nothing about “have a handle on,” nor “ready to confidently march forward and flog this bad boy.”
It’s been a long few months of research. But much like my fiction writing, I just have to keep forging ahead, keeping the faith that I can make it make sense someday. So yay, I’m starting to have a plan, to mark dates and options on a calendar. I’ve even kept writing on the second book a little bit. It’s just the rest of my life that’s falling apart.
The day job is fine. That pays the bills, so it has to remain fine. And I’ve slowly restarted my exercise regime. I’ve managed to keep my fingernails tidy and unbitten (if you know me, sadly, you know this is progress)—which is a point of personal pride and a mark of maturity.
But my house is a mess—and I mean dusty and disorganized both. I don’t manage to really cook (as much as you can call what I do “cooking”) more than once a week. I have piles of papers that represent tasks to complete, bills to pay, friends to follow up with—items to return, for Pete’s sake! But what really got me were the sweater pills.
Really. I can’t find the time to sit down with a lint roller or our battery-operated shaver (I even own one of those!) and shave the damn pills off my sweaters. Or worse, the little wormy-pill-logs under the armpits. Does this make me a bad person? Does it make me look hopelessly disheveled? Do I care? And why is this threatening my hard-won feeling of finally being in control of my life? Does anyone else go through this, or am I just insane?
Don’t answer that. Or do, and tell me what thing-you-know-you-should-do is the thing you never get to.
My best advice on this one? Buy new sweaters. Life is too short to shave sweater pills.
ReplyDeleteThe thing I never get to? The dry cleaner. I make my husband do it, and he goes religiously once or twice a week. I don't have any real reason to go--I wear dry-cleanable clothing about twice a month. But he'd be shirtless if he relied on me to go. (Truth be told, I never went when I was single, either. I just went shopping. Which probably explains my response to your question about sweater pills.)
They're brand-new sweaters! Worn only twice, and I got the under-arm worm-pills. (insert weeping here) I guess I'll just sit at my desk and pick them off ... looking vaguely like a modern-day, tech-company gorilla missing its grooming mate?
ReplyDeleteSweater pills are the devil. I haven't figured out a solution to them either and have been told that even cashmere sweaters get them. No personal experience there. I end up doing the self-plucking as well or leaving them or deciding when i walk in my store that it's a good day to buy a new sweater. Need more info on your book btw.
ReplyDeleteHi Rach! Book info on the site at the links above! Or e-mail me and I'll tell you whatever you want to know. And yes, even cashmere sweaters get pills--faster! Cheap, expensive, doesn't matter. All sweaters get them. I was picking them off at my desk today. I'm sure that looks worse than just leaving the.
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