Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Crash Position

I'm having one of those insecure days. First, I had to talk to the manager of my building to book time on one of the elevators for moving-day. He's nice and all, but he has this weird thing where it seems like he's looking into your soul, or maybe he has a positronic matrix or something, but it freaks me out and makes me feel like I'm 6 years old again and want to run away. Plus, it's not like I relish any type of practical interaction with landlords or managers of any kind, since I always want to do something terribly inappropriate--shriek like a monkey, make faces and then run away, or mess up their elaborate filing systems.

Then I went down to the bank to cash my modest (read: cheap) advance from a publisher. They're very nice to work with, but I have to get a little annoyed when they split an already-miniscule advance in half, and then wait a year to give me the second half. Plus, the book is already delayed arriving at Canadian bookstores, so my dream of seeing it on a shelf in my hometown probably won't happen until I've already left for New York.

The best part, though, was when the Sarah-Michelle-Gellar clone behind the counter didn't want to cash the cheque, because it 'seemed suspicious.' Yes, a cheque for 150 pounds is TERRIBLY SUSPICIOUS, especially when I have about five cents left in my bank account. This interaction was priceless:

Teller 1: "Well, does he get cheques like these often?"
Teller 2: "Do you get cheques like these often, sir?"
Me: "Well, yeah, sometimes. It's an advance, from a publisher."
Teller 2 [to Teller 1]: "It's an advance, from a publisher."
Teller 1: "A british publisher? From Britain?"
Me: "Yes, a british publisher from Britain."
Teller 1: "Well, how long has he had this account for?"

[Teller 2 punches some buttons. Then she looks surprised. Then she smiles.]

Teller 2 [to Teller 1]: "How old are you again?"
Teller 1 [insulted]: "Um, I'm turning 18, why?"
Teller 2: "Because he's had this account since before you were born."

I felt both old and vindicated.

Now, I'm nervous that my first novel won't get enough publicity. I'm sure it will be fine, but the little OCD-man inside of me just wants to be doing something to promote it, even though I've probably already done everything humanly possible at this point. In a nutshell, I'm just stressed out, exhausted from arranging a move that's supposed to happen in three weeks, anxious about relocating to the craziest city in the world, and wishing I could just press the 'time out' button. I don't have any time to work on lectures for my course in the fall, and normally I'm prepared far in advance, so that's totally giving me a nervous tic. Plus, the final edits to my novel have to be in soon, but I'm tapped out and barely have enough energy to life my coffee cup. Matt and I are booked pretty much every day for the next two weeks with moving stuff, along with various going-away parties and family dinners that actually just stress me out more, because all I want to do is lie on the couch in the fetal position and eat Godiva chocolates.


cynical romantic said...

You should get some cordial cherries from Godiva and then Matt would have his and you would have yours. Everybody should have cordial cherries. I want a cordial cherry.

jes battis said...

god cordial cherries rock