No Rest for the Wicked

I've got a stack of work on my desk that will not end till the end of my day because we're short staffed today, last month's freelance copy that I have to rewrite – again – for what's probably the fifth time by Monday, a deluge of *****X work expected to begin its June gestation at my desk tomorrow, and a pitch and summary to perfect before next Friday's big luncheon not to mention the need to finish writing the DAMN BOOK.

So I'm a tad stressed.

What I really want to do it curl up with Sherry Thomas' newest novel His at Night. Two days and I'm only on chapter 5. Unheard of! I've also got Julia James' Something About You waiting for me at the library and my cousin's Christmas Barnes and Noble gift card to bruise with Julia Quinn's Ten Things I Love About You. I need a vacation just to get through my TBR pile!

The freelance work has me annoyed. I'm so appreciative of it because, despite my client's title increase this year, I'm getting fewer and fewer assignments. There's a lot of good reasons for that, few if any that have to do with me or my work directly, but it's a dramatic enough decrease that it's no longer a piece of income I can rely on regularly. More time for my own writing then, you say? Well, yes, but the pay out for that is a long way off – if ever. And cash in hand is gooooood. My fabulous editor got me some extra cash for it because it really is a new direction for the copy, and that's very good. But I'm still annoyed because I thought the job was put to bed and here the editor hadn't even looked at it yet and once she did, decided it needed to be sweeter. Oh-kay. It's a pretty hot book, but apparently were focusing on babies and fantasies and happily ever after and sweet instead. I don't typically do sweet and having a baby is not my idea of happily ever after, so I lift an incredulous, Stephen Colbert-like brow at this and then repeat my manta – not my book, not my book, not my book.

Because it's not my book; it's someone else's hard work that my copy with help position to sell. Ideally. Someday perhaps, someone will be writing copy for my hard work. Yeah right. Like I won't rewrite that puppy a hundred times. But until then, I'll bend my pen to this title again to try to find the right words that are not too smart or witty, nothing remotely chick-lit-y about it, as, rather than weave my new bracelet into my WIP this weekend, I'll spend the few hours I have post another PA visit to rewrite and reposition this copy – very sweetly, I promise.

Because on Monday, the real work begins. On Monday, the faux wood of my desktop will disappear beneath the bevy of job bags from *****X. it may indeed save lives, but this month, as it does every June, it will do its damnedest to kill me.

Good thing I have a few good books to look forward to.