Did you hear back from them about the header thing?

Yep. What they want in the upper right corner is the page number. Nothing else - just that. Beginning on page 2. Nic is doing it at work, reprinting, and bringing home.

How much more of the proposal do you need to do? It's the one I've been beta-reading, yes?

Just the page number? They should have proofed their submission request before they sent it out, huh?

How much more of the proposal do you need to do?

I'm shooting for p. 105 -- that should be about where I get, and Maureen said she wanted about 100 pages. It's the same one you've been reading, yeah. And then I have to get down to work on the book that's actually due to my editor, which is going to be late by a few weeks at this point. Sigh.

Ugh. I feel your pain. Next up: the long synopsis for London Calling. I hate long synopses. Makes me want to yell at the editor: I took the time to wriet the damned book, howsabout you get off your ass and READ the damned book...?

For the bedroom window view topic:

From the bedroom window she can see a strip of green grass, and part of a tree that dresses up in frothy pink petals every spring. If she cranes her head to the left, she can see a wrought iron table with two matching chairs. Both of the chairs are being taken over by ivy, and one of the chairs is slowly sinking at an angle into the lawn.

She likes the view; she'd like to visit it. She's just not sure where it really is, since her bedroom is on the eighth floor of a narrow downtown apartment building that is surrounded by busy streets and offices. She's starting to wonder if climbing out the window would get her there.

Hi. I was gone. I wasn't really here long anyway. Writing is problematic lately.

Allyson, Jilli, I'm looking forward to reading your books!

Bedroom window view, huh?

Past two trees, I can see the gravel lane curving down the hill, to the little bridge over the brook, disappearing into honeysuckle. I can see the fields of our farm, and the fields across the road, and the hills along the river. This is the view from my bedroom window, as long as I can remember.

No one lives here anymore. The house is falling into disrepair, the barn sagging with disuse, weeds where crops were; where animals and workers and family once were, now there's no one.

But the view outside my bedroom window is still the same.

MAybe a drabble will make me less nervous about my date:

The late afternoon sun slants in through the blinds, turning my cat's eyes into little gems. She slits her eyes, looking out the bedroom window, vigilant for stray cats patrolling the dumpster outside. I obligingly stritch her ears and look outside with her.

No strays, no squirrels even, just the red brick of the apartment bulding across the alley.

Lynne's silver Subaru crunches over the gravel.

I stick my head out the window (the screen is still on the ground outside from where I pushed it out, breaking into my own house a month ago.)

"Hey!" I holler.

"I hate rain," she replies. "Want to come up for coffee?"

I think about my lack of cream, squint up at the spitting winter sky.

"Let me put some pants on, and I'll be right up."

headdesk headdesk headdesk headdesk

I hate long form synopses. I hate long form synopses. I hate long form synopses.

headdesk

I don't really feel your pain, Deb, having never written one, but...

Here's a Vicodin, a glass of Prosecco and a foot rub.

And stabbies for those who need 'em.

Erin, they're gruesome. I do two paragraphs at a time, grinding my teeth the entire way, and then have to step away because I'm talking to myself out loud, saying things like "I took the time and the trouble to write it, why can't you just READ the damned thing, you lazy #$#$#$..."

Hate. Hate hate hate.

And joining Allyson on the "as dust" Bench of Impatience. Except I know that since the deadline for the "Restless" submission is 15 February, they won't even start looking until after that.

I foresee ulcers in my near future.

"I took the time and the trouble to write it, why can't you just READ the damned thing, you lazy #$#$#$..."

This is where my sympathy lies. JUst SKIM the damned MS.

Tell ya what: I'll write the synopsis, you go on my date.

No, seriously. N. will understand.