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EmpathyMarch 29, 2006 Spring must be here: today's temperature was mid-fifties at least (sorta like me) and sunny to boot (hmmm . . .), and equine shedding action is accelerating at Malabar Farm. Everyone's doing it, but Allie's doing it more because, unlike the others, she rarely wears a blanket if the temp is above 10 degrees F. I use one of those round currycombs with teeth about the size of Halloween candy corn; the hair falls off them like furry waffles. A lot of the hair clings to my clothes and finds its way to my sink and the bathroom floor. Seems like I also pick a fair amount from between my teeth, especially when I'm chewing gum. I decided not to try to get the 10-minute play done for the April 1 contest deadline. It's started; I'll finish it eventually; it probably wouldn't have won anyway. Plus I pat myself on the back for realizing that it needed a couple of days of intensive work, instead of the hour-here-hour-there I was going to be able to devote to it this week. It's good to recognize crazy-making situations before you're in up to your eyeballs and taking it out on everyone in the vicinity. Its rival for my time and energy was, is, and maybe ever shall be a humongous copyediting job that's running over a month late. The finished book is supposed to be in the warehouse in September. That's this September, September 2006. If you are familiar with the ways of trade publishing, you are already gasping and holding your sides. If you aren't, you have my permission to do likewise. The author hasn't even turned in the last chapter and the epilogue yet. I've been returning chapters in twos and threes as I finish them, whereupon they're supposed to be sent to the author so he can answer the (extensive) queries and yea/nay my (equally extensive) edits. Have any of those finished chapters been seen again? I don't know. I don't dare ask. For the first ten chapters I had an unmitigated desire to throttle this guy. Trouble is, quite a few people at the publisher's would be trying to cut in ahead of me: author not only blows off deadlines, he doesn't answer the phone or return phone calls. He's also, in my emphatically not so humble opinion, produced an interminable, unfocused manuscript that needs another six months or so in development. (Keep in mind that it's supposed to be in the warehouse in September.) "Development" = someone standing over him holding various instruments of torture, including his checkbook, wallet, and credit cards, and asking the questions that might help him produce a better book. Slogging through chapter 11, I began to feel sorry for the guy. He, unlike me (or so I surmise), got in up to his eyeballs before he knew he was in trouble. What went wrong? Damned if I know. Maybe he didn't start writing till two months before the manuscript was due. Maybe he choked in the middle and realized he wasn't the man for the job. Maybe he drinks. Damned if I know; damned if I care. He's over his head and I feel sorry for the guy. Even if I'm one of the ones who's going crazy. Even if I'm blowing off projects trying to turn his straw into -- well, not gold, but at least something horses could eat. I've had times when demands were so overwhelming that curling into a fetal position seemed the only possible option. Not that he's curled into a fetal position; maybe yes, maybe no; all I know is that he doesn't return phone calls. And that for several weeks now I've been half listening for the ringing of my own phone: the production editor saying, "Send back what you've finished, submit your invoice; the book's been postponed till next year."
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