I'm a bit in the doldrums right about now, and it has everything to do with being a complete fannish fucktard. You see, there's a scene in HAPPY HOUR where my main character is tearing up books by her nightstand--shredding them like so many anxiety-afflicted do--picks up the last one, waxes fanatically about the author and then leaves it pristine.
I'm not talking about a fictional author here, I'm talking about a real living breathing writer that I admire.
Last week, I got notice that all blurbs, that would make it into the book, had to be in my editors email by tomorrow. He asked if I'd secured a blurb from said author. Of course, I hadn't. I'd made contact and they were interested in reading the damned thing, but, in fact, I was nervous about how they'd receive the section in the book. Would I come off as insane as I clearly am?
This was last Thursday.
I wrote two letters. The first was handwritten and resembling a serial killer's diary entry. The second, I typed, and rambled and was generally retarded or *ahem* differently-abled, for those fragile few among us. Then slid on my shoes and scrambled for the closest UPS. An hour and thirty dollars later, the ARC was on its way to the author and I've been nervous ever since.
I haven't heard a word. I'm in a Hell of my own making. I wonder if I should send apologies to the other celebrities I mentioned in the book. Do you think Jami Gertz is listed?