Buenos Friday! I can’t believe another week has passed already. My sense of time has no doubt been skewed by Shannon’s working me into a state of utter exhaustion. Don’t tell her I told you, but she’s panicking because the short kid begins full-time days at school next week and she knows she was about two years too late implementing Operation Don’t Get a Day Job.
As you can see, I tried to escape her slavedriving villainy by catching a ride with the short kid. We were unsuccessful, however, as the machine is governed down to five mph. Even Shannon can run down something going that slow. While I found the speed-control screw, the short kid said adjusting it was Against the Rules, and I couldn’t do it myself because I don’t have opposable thumbs.
I am not without petty ways of avenging my captive status, however. We cut an entire scene from Becoming Miss Becky. Shannon’s never had to do that before—cut an entire scene from a first draft—and I must say it was a very enjoyable experience. First the twitching. Then the stuttered “But…but…but…”. Then she fled, trying to avoid the situation entirely by practicing avoidance techniques. (As a bonus, the floors and toilets at Casa Stacey are very shiny.) Then she cut it. Traumatic for her, satisfying for me.
It’s definitely a challenge being a writer’s muse. The difference between that and being the muse of another artist is that instead of being…oh, a basketweaver, she’s a basketcase. For example, a seemingly innocuous comment about Adam was made during the FLE stage of Taming Eliza Jane. Confident (*cough—diva bitch—cough*) Shannon read the comment, considered it, and marked it with a stet. Not-so-confident (*cough—neurotic, whiny bitch—cough*) Shannon has let the comment fester like a confidence-corroding canker sore through the writing of BMB. Very challenging, this
Anyway, enough about her. (Although I’d be remiss if I didn’t tell you about her lightsaber fighting with her husband and managing to hit herself in the face, which made her husband laugh, which scared the cat, which scratched the tall kid, who then took it out on the short kid. Reaganomics, Stacey-style.)
(Shan: I feel a need to add to that. I can deal with the accusations of neuroses, but I want to explain that the boys were lightsaber fighting and my husband grabbed one and whacked me with it, so I took the other and whacked…well, myself, but I was trying to whack him. But I don’t want you all to think my husband and I spend our evenings playing Jedi Knight and Sith Damsel, k?)
Don’t believe her. Now, we must work. Until next week, remember self-inflicted lightsaber wounds leave a mark.