It's dark in here. And cold and something just brushed against my arm. Lisa swears she felt a spider drop on her head and she's frantically shaking out her hair while sobbing uncontrollably. She asks me if I see it and I pretend to look but really just look away instead. She maneuvers herself into the fetal position and starts rocking while I shiver in the damp corner of our cell. I ask her if she thought to bring a jacket or a blanket or even a sweatshirt and she ignores me, pulling her dingy I-was-once-bright-white-but-now-I'm-sad-grey robe tighter. And then we're crying again, wondering when our next meal will be. Lisa clasps her fingers around her bony wrist, big, sad eyes pleading to make it stop. I shake my fist at the pure, unholy madness of our situation before dropping to the damp floor on bloodied knees.
Actually...I'm on my couch. But I haven't showered and I see a spider on the ceiling. And Lisa is wearing that robe. And crying intermittently.
Edits suck.
We will most likely be wallowing in this bottomless pool of desperate suckiness for at least two weeks.
Although Lisa is still making time to stalk Zillow and pin random decor ideas for her dream house on Pinterest. Go figure.
Anyway, we'll be back to our semi-regularly programmed nonsense as soon as we claw our way out. If you never hear from us again one of two things has happened:
1. Lisa finally sold her house and has quit writing to focus solely on her second career watching HGTV and performing half assed DIY jobs.
2. We got hungry in the pit of despair and ate each other.
Either way, don't waste any tears on us. We'll be in a better place.
Don't call this a comeback
So it’s been a minute. Or 10. Or truthfully more like 2,102,400. At least we think that’s how many minutes there are in 3 years, but let...
10 comments:
LOL. I'm in revisions and line edits, too. I wouldn't describe myself as a prisoner. More like a religious zealot/hermit, living in a cave with uncombed hair and wild eyes, muttering to myself, laughing and crying at things only I can see. But I'm perfectly happy in my cave, fixed on my obsessions, and only freaking out when forced to emerge for things like dinner, conversation, and showing up at the day job (you know, the one that pays the mortgage).
You can't BOTH eat each other. Wait. You two probably could.
Ha! That first paragraph is exactly how it feels.
Alas--the pit of despair. I don't envy you, but I fear I will be there soon as well....
Misery does love company....
Shelley
No one gets out of the pit of despair...
...except on alternate Tuesdays and bank holidays. But every day after supper we have game night! And we mop up the blood fortnightly. It's not THAT bad. ;)
Good luck with edits, ladies!
LOL. You are so eloquent when describing your despair.
Do NOT each other. Buy girl scout cookies.
Good luck with the edits. And if she's that bony and starved, I wouldn't recommend eating each other. It would be a waste of effort anyway. Not to mention totally disgusting. ;)
That is what edits feels like at times! I'm sending you a flashlight and chocolates!
Don't even get me started on editing despair. I'm working on one of my novels and one nice piece of feedback politely explained where I can find online writing classes. sigh.
Wagging Tales
Good luck with your edits! Chocolate always helps, as does wine.
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