My critique partners are wonderful, patient and extremely helpful. They are also irritating, pushy and take delight in grabbing me by the ear when I drag my feet submitting my delightful work in progress. At least it was delightful while I was writing it late last night.
There I am, typing away. The words are flowing and I haven't stopped to see if there is any birthday cake left. I'm on a roll. Well, I did leave this morning to go to the museum, but that was research. I solved the CSI crime exhibit so I can use what I learned in my Cookie Devereaux romantic suspense. Even Grissom said a did a good job.
But, I digress.
It never fails. I submit my brilliant example of American romance literature to the three picky Meanies. I just know that this time, they will be dumbstruck in awe. These pages will be praised as the most perfect work ever to grace their desks.
When we meet and they grimly push my pages across the table. Red bleeds across my beautiful white pages.
"You are back to head hopping," says the red headed Meany.
The second one just looks at me with pity in her eyes.
The third one pats my hand a assures me (very kindly) that I am improving. I think she would praise me if it was written in crayon.
Don't get me wrong. I love these women. They cheer me on and my writing truly has improved from the pitiful mess it was a while back.
There are times when I want to take off my size eight orthopedic walking shoe and throw it across the table.
The one saving grace is that, I also get to critique their stuff and payback is hell. Mua-ha-ha-ha!