T minus fifteen

No way has it been twelve days since the last time I posted. Stop lying to me, blog.

Speaking of days-since-or-until-whatever, in fifteen days our book comes out. Fifteen. Five. Plus teen. TWO WEEKS AND A DAY. I am both excited and also I feel like I might throw up, a lot, at any given moment. Which partially explains why I haven't been posting as regularly as I prefer. When I'm not fighting the throw-up urge I'm emailing people and shamelessly pimping out the book on Twitter. So far everyone's been exceedingly tolerant, but I expect they'll grow tired of me eventually.

So! Have you pre-ordered your copy? (That's an affiliate link, by the way. Which means I get, I don't know, .02 cents for every order? Unclear.) Of course you've pre-ordered! What a silly question. I can't believe I even asked. Please forgive me.

So we've been awfully busy doing I'm not sure what. Running in circles? Planning stuff? Fretting? At any rate, I am now, tonight, Valentine's Evening, so tired I could cry. And listen--I'm not going to lie to you, I've had some wine. I think this means I'm officially drunk-blogging. It's my first time! Okay, I'm not drunk. But definitely a little tipsy, whether from the half-glass of wine I had (Melissa is rolling her eyes so hard right now) or the possibly terminal exhaustion.

Have you seen what Scott did, to promote the book? He created this book trailer, is what. (Yes, writers have "book trailers," now. Like it's not enough we wrote a book. We also have to make a movie.) Scott's a film editor by trade, so it was very convenient that I married him. When Eden and I told him we wanted his help creating an educational filmstrip about the book, he was all, "Allow me." And we were like, "Do you want a script?" And he went, "No I do not. Do not worry your little heads over a script, for I have Ideas." Then he went ahead and did this. We had almost nothing to do with it. This, you guys, is a work of art. You can't imagine how much work went into it. Try and imagine it. WRONG. More.

Maybe I had an entire glass of wine? Anyway, here you go:

Pretty amazing, right?

Some people who watched it had questions. Like so:

Q.: Who did the narration?
A.: If you don't get it right away, then the photo at the very end should provide a really obvious clue. If you still don't get it, ask a friendly grown-up!

Q: Wow, who'd you get to do that impersonation?
A: That's not an impersonation. That's the real deal.

Q: Huh? But how...but...where did you find that audio clip?
A: There was no single audio clip, my adorable friend; there were countless clips, some of them one word long, which my husband manipulated expertly, as is his way.

Q: Why is Scott not a ridiculously famous film editor like that Thelma whatshername who edits all of Marty Scorcese's films? And by the way I call him Marty because we're close friends.
A: I ask myself that constantly, Friend of Marty. I believe it'll happen soon enough. 

A winner, and a book

First of all: we have a winner for the Windows Phone 7 giveaway! Erin McDaniel, congratulations on winning, and I hope the phone brings you much enjoyment and, uh, connectivity.

In other news, look at what I received last week. Go ahead, look. Don't turn away from me. Look--not there--over here. Helloooo? Are you--? Good. Stay there.

Ta-da!

It's a book! A book that Eden and I actually wrote, using our hands and brains. Also mouths, for when we spoke to one another. And ears for listening. I should probably stop listing which body parts we used in the creation of this thing.

(Parts of soul, for ripping out.)

These are the "advance uncorrected proofs," with a heavy emphasis on the uncorrected, oh my word. The editor sent us these in un-bound form the week before, and we spent an entire weekend doing nothing but going page by page through the book, correcting typos, images in the wrong places, weird captions that were funny when we thought them up but then seemed clunky on the page, etc. We removed entire sidebars, added over thirty new images, improved image captions--we rearranged entire chapters, here and there. So although I was excited to see this book in actual book form, it also felt weirdly frustrating that the actual book form (for now) is the unchanged version. I'm keenly aware of everything excellent we did to the finished product, and the reviewers are going to get this one. With the typos.

(We did not do that. We do know how to spell "pregnant.")

Our editor has assured us that reviewers are used to typo-ridden advance copies, and so we must forge bravely onward. And look: we wrote a book. A BOOK! With funny illustrations in it!

Eden and I made a book together! We're really proud of our baby. We can't wait to share it with all of you.

Speaking of which, did you know that you could pre-order? If you pre-order, then you might forget that you did, and on March 1st, your doorbell will ring, and it'll be like you got a gift! A gift from yourself in the past! You could order from Amazon. Or Barnes and Noble. Or then there's Powells! And, of course, you could go to Indiebound to buy it from an independent bookstore.

I'm just saying.

Post partum

I’ve been in a funk the past couple of weeks. I couldn’t figure out why for the longest time. Was it my birthday, which by the way was last Friday? Nah. Nothing is more anticlimactic than turning 41. There is no more boring age on Earth. 41? Who thought of such a ridiculous number? Can’t we pretend it never happened? Ignore the prime-numbered years? 41. Bah.

It wasn’t the birthday, but the birthday didn’t help. I was not in the mood to celebrate. This is unlike me. My family was alarmed. Scott insisted that surely I wanted to do something, and in response I shouted “STOP ASKING ME” and ran to my room, weeping. Then my mom called to demand to know what I wanted to do and I said “Nothing” and she said, “Well, but SOMETHING” and I wailed “NOTHING” and “NO ONE GETS ME” and braces sprouted back onto my teeth and no one asked me to the prom, again. This birthday was complicated!

My actual birthday day was actually nice. (That is the best sentence I have ever written. History, take note.) Henry wrote me an amazing poem, and I just asked him if I could share it with you all and he said no, so you’ll have to take my word for it. It was stellar, and worth turning 41 for. Scott got me a beautiful piece of art. We had a nice dinner. I sure am writing the word “nice” a lot.

Anyway, then my birthday was over, which happens, as we know, and my funk returned, and I figured out the cause of it: post-book-turning-in blues. Eden and I have been hunkered down for so long, focused on getting pages churned out, and then getting those churned-out pages to not suck, and then to suck even less, and then adding images to said pages, and now it’s…done. And you know what? It’s kind of a bummer. I felt relief and accomplishment for, uh, a few minutes, and then I missed that bastard manuscript that’s kept me so involved for so long.

The thing is, when you write a book, nothing feels as good as writing it. Not finishing it; not getting it published; not (I think) getting good reviews (which we would like, please, thank you). Even when it feels awful, writing is the best part of the process— because even when it’s difficult and every word you come up with is laughably bad, you know you did it anyway. You did it. And that can’t be taken away. (It can be laughed at, sure, but you’re not going to show anyone that draft, are you.)

The publications that, if you’re lucky, occur along the way—and believe me, I realize how lucky I am—don’t mean all that much. They don’t do a thing for your soul. That pesky soul. It is not at all assuaged with advances or praise or any of that nonsense. It wants you to work. The work is the whole point.

A novelist friend of mine once told me this. He outlined for me exactly what happens. He said that when you get your first article published, you worry about when you’re going to get another one published. And once you’ve had a few pieces published, you worry about when you’re going to get a book. And once you get a book, you stress out about the publication of the book, and will it sell enough. And then you worry about the reviews. And then you worry about the chances of getting your next book published. And on and on.

I ignored him. I knew that when I had my first accepted anything I would bask in my newfound glory and everyone would love me and also my complexion would clear up and I would never be sad again.

Well. You were right, Gary, you jerk. Here I am, sure that nothing is going to make me feel better except starting the next book. Which, I guess, is good news. And cause for celebration or whatever. Damn it.

Four days!

Mrs. Kennedy and I completed the final edit to our manuscript yesterday. And that, my friends, was an alarming amount of work. My eyes and hands ache, and my brain-parts are wrung dry. Scott was helping me punch up some of the jokes, and at some point over the weekend he barked, “DID YOU HAVE TO PUT IN SO MANY WORDS?” I knew how he felt.

I actually at one point thought we could move on the same day the manuscript was due, because after all the edits weren’t all that much, and if we just improved some of the humor here and there, and added in the images, how much work could that be? I could just finish it up while I took breaks from packing! BAH HAAAAAAaaaarh. That is me wheeze-laughing as I take another swig from the dusty bottle of Kahlua I found at the back of our pantry. Kahlua plus working straight through the night makes me feel like I’m in college again!

Fortunately Scott corrected me when I insisted we could move over the weekend, and instead we are moving this Friday. Which still seems too soon, right now, because I need to sleep for at least a week. On the other hand it can’t come quickly enough, because even as I write this my neighbors are outside on the stoop, playing Who Can Smoke the Most Cigarettes While Yelling the Loudest? Hold me.