Most of the time, Christmas is my favorite holiday. Unless it’s October. Then I remember how much I love Halloween.
This is our first year in this house — a sweet peach and white Victorian that I was determined to decorate as the witch’s house from “Hansel and Gretel.” I had it all planned out. A kids’ cemetery in one corner of the yard, filled with creepy headstones and surrounded by a candy cane fence. I’d been scheming ways to get my husband to the top of the turret to hang giant hard candies wrapped in colored cellophane. I was going to dress as the witch, and I’d even coerced my kids into dressing as Hansel and Gretel. Crying. In a cage near the front door. Begging neighbors to help them escape. It was going to be epic.
Until I remembered I had a life. A job. The aforementioned house to clean and husband and kids to, you know, feed and stuff.
Maybe next year.
Because this year, not only am I busy with all of that stuff, but I’m busy plotting my second novel and shopping my first post-apocalypse romance to agents. In fact, a few days ago, I entered my first writer’s contest — the very awesome Nightmare on Query Street contest over on Michelle Hauck’s blog. A few days ago, I thought I had as decent chance as most new writers of making it to the mentor round. Until I caught that dropped preposition in my query. Until I read the mentor’s advice about how to differentiate your manuscript from all the rest in a market already saturated with your genre. Until I realized I’d done exactly the opposite of that. Until I read all their cryptic comments about novels they loved that clearly weren’t mine.
I’m a self-confident woman with what might be a tad too much ego, but I regularly laugh at my mistakes and affectionately reference myself as a freakazoid, a dweeb, whatever insult comes to mind at the time, just as I affectionately insult everyone else I love. I’ve added a new one now. When it comes to the world of writing, I’m such a noob.
Maybe I had time to decorate the damned house after all.