12 October 2001 (again)

Dammit, dammit, dammit.

I did not need this. Not ever, but especially not now.

I had the week from hell before we left, ended up weighing less than I have in my adult life because I wasn't eating right or sleeping right. You know how everybody has a weight range within which they feel optimal? I left mine. I'm trying to get back to it. But I still feel terrible, and I have no physical reserves. I get blood-sugar low headaches at the drop of a hat, and I get shaky-tired too early as well.

I'm homesick. All-you-all read that in the picture stuff already. But it's true.

Like the rest of the country, I'm shaken and upset by the terrorist attacks and the fact that we are now at war with a country full of incredibly downtrodden people.

And now? Delacorte decided they didn't want Fortress. They decided that it was "still not right for their line." That was all they said. No clue as to what I did wrong, didn't do right, whatever. I know I'm supposed to react with deep professionalism. My lines -- and I feel like Kevin Costner prompting Tim Robbins just now -- are, "It's been a learning experience." "I'll be eager to move on and find a publisher that's a better fit." "I appreciate the fact that this editor spent the time to work on this book with me, even if it didn't work out." That stuff is true, in a sense. But right now I just feel kicked in the head, and mature professionalism can wait for tomorrow.

I am now in the calmly conversational stage of M'rissa Upset. It's one of the more annoying stages, but it's resolutely functional. Which is a plus, I suppose.

So I declare tomorrow Be Nice To M'rissa Day. I mean it. I really need to be treated gently.