Becca Fitzpatrick

Sometimes I like to pretend I'm a domestic goddess.  In my fantasies, nothing I cook spontaneously combusts.  My children don't spew their dinner and make gagging gestures below the kitchen table.  My fridge is always full of fresh produce and I have a culinary array of condiments lined up in the fridge door.  My kitchen utensils aren't used as bath toys, the oven isn't just another cupboard and the skillets hanging from the pot rack aren't dusty.  Most importantly, I never use expletives while cooking.  And I never ever scream WHY ME? at the top of my lungs when my two-year-old grabs a glass pickle jar off the shelf at the grocery store and chucks it on the floor.

Domestic goddesses are very cool.  Cool as in suave.  They don't have blood pressure problems and they never ever break out in stress hives.  They carry Band-aids in their purses.  They have purses.  They know how to substitute lemon pudding and Elmer's glue for eggs in a pinch.  They don't have archenemies and they would never ever consider buying a voodoo doll.  

Most of the time I live in the real world and accept that I'm not a domestic goddess.  Domestication, apparently, just isn't for me.  That's where shoes come in.  Shoes are for me.  Shoes are my drug of choice.  At the end of a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, I can make a complete about-face when I see a pair of pretty shoes.  Remember my hot pink Maryjanes with the broken buckle?  Their replacements arrived.  

    




     

You know that feeling of pure, unadulterated euphoria?  Yeah.  I'm feeling it.  Right now. 

My revisiosn are done!

Okay, seriously, please stop the thunderous applause.  You're making me blush :)

This is what my will-do list looks like right now. 

1.  Finish revisions on HH
2.  Send revisions to agent
3.  Dream about connecting with brilliant, visionary editor
4.  Start new project
5.  Buy lots of shoes in the interim 

I was supposed to go to Worldcon this year with several writing buddies, but it inopportunely landed on the same weekend as my triathlon.  I received this Wish-You-Were-Here card today from Laura, whose blog can be found at http://lauraadrian.blogspot.com 



Laura, if you read this, I bought a pair of shoes I think you're gonna love.  But I refuse to post pictures until I send in my revisions.  (See?  I'm still superstitious over my earlier shoe-cheating.)

ETA: The caption reads "Jerome was in his 40th year of writer's block.  If he could just 'break through' he'd buy a pair of sandals and a robe."

Okay, so here's the thing.  I wasn't going to wear these shoes until after I'd finished revisions.  I promised myself I wouldn't.  But then a little voice in my head started whispering, By the time you finish revisions, summer will be long gone.  It will be September.  You won't want to wear hot pink patent-leather Mary Janes.  You'll want to wear boots. 

So I cheated.  I wore the shoes. 

Actually, that's a lie.  I didn't even get to wear the shoes.  While I was putting them on, a buckle broke.  I had a brief heart attack and knew I was being cursed for wearing the shoes early.  And then I got it into my head that my story was going to be cursed for shoe-cheating.

But all is well.  My hard drive didn't devour my story.  The curse stopped with the shoes. 

I solemnly swear to never shoe-cheat again.  Never, ever.  My shoe-cheating days are so oooover. 

  

Shoes.  Obviously. 
OK, that's kind of a shallow thing to say.  And it's not entirely true . . . not entirely. 
But if we're being honest here, I definitely get a thrill out of nailing my writing goals because it means I get to turn myself loose at Macy's.  Discipline vs. reckless abandon. 


The rough draft of my novel is DONE!



I said THE ROUGH DRAFT OF MY NOVEL IS DONE!

I can hardly type straight I'm laughing so hard!  I have NO idea what I'm going to do with these shoes.  I saw them on display . . . and the next thing I knew they were at home in my closet.  YES, they are TURQUOISE!  YES, they are SNAKESKIN!   NO, my conscience has no qualms blaming their existence in my wardrobe on Mr. Secret Agent Man . . .