Flotsam

I am sick with some sort of flu. Just in case it is swine related, this morning I ate a rasher of bacon as spitefully as I know how. I usually feel better each successive day of an illness—save for the first two—but this time it is quite the opposite, and I have a sinking feeling that I may have my first sinus infection. Well, it’s not so much a sinking feeling as it is an “awl-in-the-nose” sort of feeling, but I would like to avoid antibiotics, so I will give it another day. Which is how long I figure I have before death if this downward trend continues.

I am spending most of my day in bed, which gives me plenty of time to think—not ideal given that I sent my book proposal out on its maiden voyage Thursday. It’s not like I didn’t KNOW that the wait would be skin-peelingly tortuous, but oh my hell. I recall thinking that once I sent my proposal off I would take up running to pass the time until I heard something, but now that the wait is upon me I remember that hey! I HATE RUNNING.

I hadn’t planned to say anything here about the Maiden Voyage, as my usual MO in these situations is to tell nobody, so that I won’t have to suffer through others’ pity and my embarrassment when the inevitable rejection comes. But you are my beloved readers: if there ever is a book, you would be the ones (hopefully) buying it, and so in a way it is our book, and it would be rude of me not to let you experience this delightful mélange of terror and digestive illness first (well, second) hand.

SO! As I see it, things can go one of fourteen ways:

1. She likes it! The proposal needs some work, but I officially have an agent! CHAMPAGNE FOR EVERYONE!
2. She doesn’t dislike it, but it is Not For Her.
3. Meh. She gives me a thoughtful critique and encourages me to submit again later.
4. Meh. She gives me a thoughtful critique.
5. No.
6. She does not like it, and tactfully suggests I find another line of work. It is insinuated that I would make a fine bricklayer, night watchperson, or mime. Something that demands less facility with the English language.
7. She dislikes it, and sends an email detailing my many flaws to the person who introduced us in the first place, except she accidentally CCs me on the email.
8. She dislikes it, and sends an email detailing my many flaws to the person who introduced us in the first place, except she accidentally CCs me on the email. I become depressed and take up drinking. Take it up more strenuously, I mean.
9. She dislikes it, and sends an email detailing my many flaws to the person who introduced us in the first place, except she accidentally CCs me on the email. I become depressed and take up drinking. Take it up more strenuously, I mean. Scott leaves me, taking the baby. They move to Fiji where they live in a lavishly appointed tree house and drink the milk from coconuts.
10. She dislikes it, and sends an email detailing my many flaws to the person who introduced us in the first place, except she accidentally CCs me on the email. I become depressed and take up drinking. Take it up more strenuously, I mean. Scott leaves me, taking the baby. They move to Fiji where they live in a lavishly appointed tree house and drink the milk from coconuts. I wander the streets in housepants, selling limericks for five cents apiece.
11. She dislikes it, and sends an email detailing my many flaws to the person who introduced us in the first place, except she accidentally CCs me on the email. I become depressed and take up drinking. Take it up more strenuously, I mean. Scott leaves me, taking the baby. They move to Fiji where they live in a lavishly appointed tree house and drink the milk from coconuts. I wander the streets in housepants, selling limericks for five cents apiece. In the winter, having spent all of my limerick money on cheap gin, I huddle in an abandoned railway car. When it rains, I keep dry under a toadstool.
12. She dislikes it, and sends an email detailing my many flaws to the person who introduced us in the first place, except she accidentally CCs me on the email. I become depressed and take up drinking. Take it up more strenuously, I mean. Scott leaves me, taking the baby. They move to Fiji where they live in a lavishly appointed tree house and drink the milk from coconuts. I wander the streets in housepants, selling limericks for five cents apiece. In the winter, having spent all of my limerick money on cheap gin, I huddle in an abandoned railway car. When it rains, I keep dry under a toadstool. For company I have a pet pigeon, named Neil Patrick Harris.
13. She dislikes it, and sends an email detailing my many flaws to the person who introduced us in the first place, except she accidentally CCs me on the email. I become depressed and take up drinking. Take it up more strenuously, I mean. Scott leaves me, taking the baby. They move to Fiji where they live in a lavishly appointed tree house and drink the milk from coconuts. I wander the streets in housepants, selling limericks for five cents apiece. In the winter, having spent all of my limerick money on cheap gin, I huddle in an abandoned railway car. When it rains, I keep dry under a toadstool. For company I have a pet pigeon, named Neil Patrick Harris. Neil Patrick Harris dies after eating tainted birdseed.
14. She dislikes it, and sends an email detailing my many flaws to the person who introduced us in the first place, except she accidentally CCs me on the email. I become depressed and take up drinking. Take it up more strenuously, I mean. Scott leaves me, taking the baby. They move to Fiji where they live in a lavishly appointed tree house and drink the milk from coconuts. I wander the streets in housepants, selling limericks for five cents apiece. In the winter, having spent all of my limerick money on cheap gin, I huddle in an abandoned railway car. When it rains, I keep dry under a toadstool. For company I have a pet pigeon, named Neil Patrick Harris. Neil Patrick Harris dies after eating tainted birdseed. The limerick market dries up, and I freeze to death in a Target parking lot, the tips of my fingers black and peeling, like in The Little Match Girl, only with short-form rhyming poetry instead of matches, thus finally revealing that my childhood dread of that particular story was well-founded after all.

God, I hope it’s not number fourteen.