Yeah. Okay. I wanted to call it a Pond of Ennui, but that word doesn't fit. Torper would do, too. But lassitude it is. I don’t recall feeling this aimless and adrift since, well, some moment so long ago that I can’t remember when it was.
I’ve worn a track in the carpet wandering from room to room, trying to decide what to do with all my “free time.”
Not, of course, that I have any “free time.” Yes, okay, the manuscript is on my editor’s desk and I’ll see her later this week to discuss it. (Let us hope her response is not the equivalent of “What the FUCK were you thinking???? We can’t publish this crap!”)
Until that happens, I’m not inclined to work on it. I’m also not in the mood to work on it. If familiarity breeds contempt, my manuscript and I loathe each other at the moment.
Much of my house-wandering has been devoted to thinking, in a general way, about my next book. I know what I want to do, but I don’t want to get too carried away until I talk to my agent, which will also happen later this week.
(Manhattan: Trek downtown to see editor, then up to midtown to see agent.) The idea is only quarter-baked at the moment. I think it’s a good one, but ...... (Yes, this is one reason to pay an agent: he/she offers advice, assistance, reality checks.)
So --- I’m not getting much done. Which is not to say I’ve been sitting around engaging in the contemporary equivalent of eating bon bons while watching soap operas. Things I’ve done since sending manuscript to editor:
- Written the introduction. Or, more accurately, written five or six drafts of the introduction
- Read a bunch of stuff (much of it excruciatingly dull) about contemporary food politics
- Pondered my next book
- Talked to reporters about Pink Slime; written about Pink Slime
- Written a first draft of lyrics for the music video I’ll be making to promote the meat book
Hmmm. And: Ugh. Doesn’t sound like much for a month of work. So. Back to wandering.