Sometimes, when it comes to professional envy, the hits just keep on coming and it’s hard to keep on going. And it doesn’t matter how much you like and/or respect the author, when somebody gets a deal with an editor you want or a house you want or beats you to the punch with a similar premise you’d thought unique, there’s some teeth grinding, some pen tossing and some throwing of the hands into the air.

The first thing I do to drag myself out of the pit of despair is skim through one of my all-time favorite writing books, Way of the Cheetah: How to Boost Your Productivity by Lynn Viehl. Especially this part:

How long do you think a cheetah would survive if he saw other cats bringing down bigger/juicier/tastier game and thought “Well, that’s it, I’ll never be able to hunt as well as they do. I quit.”

Inevitably, rational thought and reluctant self-awareness will crash the pity party and I’m forced to deal with my wait for meeeee whining with a checklist. (Let’s call the lucky deal-getting author Jane Doe, just to be original.)

1. Did Jane Doe work on six different books in the last three days because she can’t decide which path to take? (Probably not.)

2. In the last week, has Jane Doe accumulated more word count with blog posts than with manuscript pages? (Probably not.)

3. Does Jane Doe sit with a notebook and pen in her lap and pretend she’s writing while watching TV? (Probably not.)

4. Does Jane Doe do anything and everything—from fighting dust bunnies to running errands to chatting on the phone—before she sits down to write? (Probably not.)

For me, the hardest thing about professional envy is the moment when I have to admit that, no matter how lucky Jane Doe might seem, agents and editors didn’t line up outside her door with little deli number tags, dying to get their hands on her unfinished ideas.

The trick is to turn that moment into motivation.

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Fine. I went.

I had to have a tetanus shot.

And I have to take Augmentin for 10 days, which the nurse cheerfully informed might make me feel nauseated, and I will almost certainly feel, because of the shot, as though a large man punched me in the arm.

It’s all Angie’s fault. She knows why.

Pretty, isn’t she? Serene, even.

It’s a lie. She’s a vicious, feral jungle cat who will—suddenly and without remorse—shred the finger off the person who feeds her. Yeah, that would be me. So what happened?

I was letting her bite me, and then she really bit me. I know, huh?

Since Jinx was a wee baby kitty, she’s liked to chew on the ends of my fingers, especially my nails. So it was no big deal, until she turned her head, lined those vicious back teeth up with the first knuckle of my right middle finger and tried to get the marrow out of the bone with one bite. Punctured the skin on both sides, but tore the skin on the top of my hand. And I’m not sure if she bruised the joint somehow, but I can’t bend it. I woke up this morning to excruciating pain and…redness.

(This is where I have to pause to assure Jaci and Angie I’ll go see a doctor. At some point. Maybe.)

So now I’m going to go brave a load of dishes because open wounds love nothing more than hot, Dawn-sudsy water. And then will come the liberal alcohol dousing. Once I’ve stopped screaming and picked myself up off the floor, I’ll see if I can hold a pen any better than I can type.

And I’m not letting that little ginger witch chew my nails anymore, dammit.

Dear David Cook: (”Hungry Like the Wolf — Duran Duran—SQUEE!) Ohmigod. I hated it. I’m so sorry. Especially the “doo doo” parts. I can’t believe it, and I have so much guilt.

Dear Syesha Mercado: (”Big Wheels Keep On Turning”…or is it “Proud Mary”?—Tina Turner) That whole dance routine bridge was tres corny. Seriously bad. And I liked the first half much more than the second. Beware the channeling of the screeching monkey.

Stop DVR playback for Celtics scorecheck…resume playback…

Dear Jason Castro: (”I Shot the Sheriff”—Bob Marley) I was too busy pointing and laughing to write a letter to you. Still am, actually.

Stop DVR playback for Celtics scorecheck…resume playback…

Dear David Archuleta: (”Stand by Me”—Ben E. King) Dude, I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but you’re my favorite at the split tonight. But you need to work on that wheezy, audible inhaling. Very distracting. But well-sung, froggy.

Dear David Cook: (”Baba O’Reilly”—The Who) Oh hai, you’re back! I thought we’d lost you. That was pretty good, I thought, and my husband, who—unlike me—actually has familiarity with The Who beyond the CSI theme, said you done good. But who the is Baba O’Reilly?

Stop DVR playback for 4th quarter Celtics…

Will watch the rest during lunch. Go Celtics!

Edited to add PART 2:

Dear Syesha Mercado: (”A Change is Gonna Come”—Sam Cook) That was pretty. Unfortunately for you, you’re probably going home no matter how ridiculous Jason is because there seems to be a conspiracy to ensure Jason wins just so my husband’s head explodes.

Dear Jason Castro: (”Mister Tambourine Man”—Bob Dylan) If it’s such a favorite classic, why don’t you know the lyrics? You should have rocked out some Springsteen, dude.

David Archuleta: (”Love Me Tender”—Elvis Presley) If I stuck a post-hole digger down my throat, I still couldn’t have triggered as strong a gag reflex as your performance did.

So I’ve been working on a contemporary category for…ever? (I’ve also been working on not starting blog posts with the word so. Neither’s going well.) Quite frankly, if I didn’t love the story and love the characters and desperately want to write this book, it would have been scrapped a long time ago.

No matter how much I’ve tinkered with it, the opening has felt flat to me. Nothing really definable, just kind of…eh. When the author is skimming through chapter one in a read-through, anxious to get to the next chapter, the book—it is broken.

Then, last night, I finally noticed something—a forest for the trees moment.

I’m a pretty traditional girl, structurally. Three scenes per chapter, usually alternating the hero and heroine’s points of view, though I’m not rigid about that.

This manuscript has only two scenes in chapter one.

A-HA! At least now I have a list of possible reasons for the broken-ness:

1. The opening chapter really does just suck.

2. There are only two scenes because each POV scene was too long due to too much information/introspection, which leads to skimming.

3. It’s a mental thing—I perceive my pacing as being way off because I’m used to three shorter scenes per chapter.

I’m guessing it’s a combination of 2 and 3, but at least now I have a game plan and can hopefully instead of

So I have a mirror now. I know, most people have them, but we really only had the medicine cabinet mirrors. Then we remodeled the downstairs half-bath (my bathroom) and the husband hung a real mirror over the vanity. Yeah, facing the toilet. The mirror is nothing short of girnormous, and there’s no escaping it.

Now, I’ve known all along that I’ve gotten a little broad in the beam, but…I’m not sure there’s a quaint colloquialism for this. Let’s just say I don’t like that mirror.

I whined to my sister, who naturally suggested Weight Watchers. Yeah, well, you’re not putting me in a meeting room with a bunch of other women. It sounds like a Tupperware party, only without the nachos and cookies. But in the course of the conversation, she mentioned a book—The Calorie King: Calorie, Fat & Carbohydrate Counter. It even has restaurant figures.

After trying unsuccessfully to buy a battery for my camera for the second day in a row (long story), I consoled myself with a trip to Borders and happened to see the book, so I grabbed it.

I wish I hadn’t.

I use up more than my recommended daily calorie intake just in my beverages.

I’m kind of in mode about that right now. I also, while at Borders, picked up a Silhouette Desire, Baby on the Billionaire’s Doorstep by Emily McKay, which was recommended to me. I think I might read that.

And try not to

Brenda Novak’s 2008 Online Auction to Benefit Diabetes Research starts tomorrow and there about a gazillion things I’d like to buy—starting with the autographed Ali photo.

One thing that really caught my eye—some of the editorial evaluations have a promised response time, ranging from 24 hours to 2 weeks.

Dayum!

Considering I’ve had a partial hanging out with one of those editors for one week shy of ten months now, that’s a really hard deal to pass up. (Of course the hard part would be getting the wallet guy husband to feel the same way.)

Neil Diamond? Oh, come on! What’s next? Julia Ward Howe week?

Digression—NCIS: Anybody else think the giving of the laptop would have been more touching if she’d given her the power cord, too?

Anyway…(Pleasepleaseplease don’t let Archuleta sing “Sweet Caroline”.)

Crap, they’re each doing two songs tonight. I’ll take the performances in order rather than try to collate.

Dear Jason Castro: (”Forever in Blue Jeans”) I actually liked it, especially the opening lines where you used that deeper man voice. Unfortunately, toward the end you reverted to Ukelele Boy again.

Dear David Cook: (”I’m Alive”) The chorus was your usual awesome, but the opening was…flat. Like deep rocker robo-voice. Still better than Ukelele Boy, of course.

Dear Brooke White: (”I’m a Believer”) Ack. The karaoke version at the end of Shrek was a gazillion times better. Sweetie, when you get your ass kicked vocally by Donkey, it’s time to pack your bag, grab a tuppence or two and go feed the birds.

Dear David Archuleta: (”Sweet Caroline”) I knew it. Dammit. As a Red Sox fan, I found your rendition to be lacking in energy. Dude, don’t you know you have to shout the BOM BOM BOM really loud? But I’m sure you have plenty of voters out there—probably a lot of Yankees fans—and you’ll survive.

Dear Syesha Mercado: (”Hello Again”) Pretty. Well sung. Boring.

Dear Jason Castro again: (”September Morning”) That was very pretty. Really. I have, however, discovered this season I like my male singers to be as alpha as my romance heroes. You’re just too beta for me, honeypie.

Dear David Cook again: (”All I Really Need is You”) You sound a lot like the (former?) lead singer of Fuel. And the better you are, the more boring I look because there’s no room for mocking. Even a New Englander can only say “Wicked awesome” so many times. You totally outsang Donkey, though.

Dear Brooke White again: (”I am, I said”) So that was actually pretty good, I thought. Granted, I was pretty distracted, pondering whether or not there should be a comma in the title of the song. Being a comma whore, I decided there should.

Dear David Archuleta: (”Coming to America”) You want a little wine with that cheese?

Dear Syesha Mercado again: (”Thank the Lord for the Nighttime”) I think was, surprisingly, my favorite of the not-David-Cooks. When you get that high-personality, bluesy thing going, I like you.

I vote to evict: David Archuleta (for singing “Sweet Caroline”)

I think the mad texters should vote to evict: Brooke White

My unabashed adoration for secret baby romances isn’t something I keep buried behind the bassinet. I’ve even written two of them myself. As a reader I’ve gone through a ton of them, and I have certain expectations:

1. Whatever separated them post-conception can’t sustain the book. There has to be a conflict in the here and now, and his talking to his ex-girlfriend, the bleached blonde Bunny with the very big pom-poms, outside of the Dairy Queen twelve years ago isn’t going to be enough.

2. The reason the heroine flew the baby under the hero’s radar has to be pretty damn good to not lose the readers who don’t think all men are assholes by default.

Some reasons that aren’t good enough:

A. The hero didn’t say the words “I love you” during the conception event.

B. A young man irresponsible enough to have unprotected sex is too irresponsible to be a daddy.

C. She totally misunderstood when he said he was pulling out.

D. He didn’t call her the next day, so she’s not going to share the beautiful miracle he doesn’t deserve.

E. One of my all-time favorites: to save the baby from the wealthy clutches of the hero’s gazillionaire family because they surely won’t accept the heroine once she slurps her soup.

3. The secret baby can’t be so secret the author keeps forgetting to give him or her walk-on roles in the book. The Amnesiac Author’s Disappearing Diapered Device?

4. Secret baby lovers know the story really gets going with the reveal, when the conflicts and emotional tension shoot into the stratosphere. So if your secret baby book is, say, 372 pages and on page 300 I’m still waiting for the hero to learn he’s the Senior to the secret Junior, then A) somewhere around page 130 I started skimming what might have been an otherwise great book and 2) that book mark is still at page 300. At least I assume it is. I set the book down and read two Blazes and an Intrigue.

5. If the hero and heroine are in conflict over a no-longer-secret baby and then accidentally have unprotected sex AGAIN, I begin to hope they, and your hard drive, die.