On Monday, I received the 'book' I mentioned in a previous post. All the way from L.A. and sent by some type of international express mail at a cost to the authors of $7.00 American. They should, perhaps, have saved their money.
I'm in a quandry because I hesitate to even call the pages between covers a book. I've stopped reading at page 81 because I have a metaphorical hangover. The number of boozy lunches in the first 80 pages gave it to me. There's lots of evidence that Trafford (that's the edition I received) does zero editing. And by golly Molly, it sure could have used more than a little. It will be an uphill sans shoes slog to finish reading the pages. And then what am I to do - give it a bad review? Decide not to review it? Send it back with a note? Send them an e-mail indicating I can't review it?
It all makes me think about what it must be like for them, or for any other author who hopes to be reviewed.
It was so cold on the weekend that I almost turned on the heat, almost. But I managed to survive without it. NOw, we have rain instead of snow so perhaps I will not have to enrich Ontario Hydro.
I have two stories started and am not sure yet how to progress with either of them. That may mean I'm foot dragging again, or maybe I'm just figuring out where they will go. I think I'll opt for being in the contemplative phase.
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