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.