It's just too cold for me.
I claim the right to complain.
My nose is frozen. Seriously - the snot is freezing inside my nose.
The horses actually want to come into the barn in the evening - and STAY there. No more of the usual chewing down the grain and then gazing out the barn door, waiting to get out. They sigh with contentment and spread the hay all over the clean shavings in the stall.
Cars don't want to start. When they do start, the gear shift coldly and reluctantly moves into place.
My truck lost the ability to produce heat inside the cab a couple weeks ago. Only today I have had the ability to pay to have it fixed.
The water tap in the barn froze. I cannot even tell you how much I HATE that.
The Pug doesn't even want to go out.
The inside of the screen door is frozen.
I can't take this anymore, Winter. I could stand it when it was just cold, but this is too much. Once the temperature falls into the minus-double-digits I start feeling abused now and I won't stand for this abuse. I've often doubted our compatibility but I have just had enough of the cruelty.
Thaw out my water tap before you leave.
Don't let the gate hit you in the ass on your way out.
(And let the Winnipeg people go too, you polygamist torturer! Seriously, they are so much nicer and easy-going than us Ontarians. Minus 50???? You are cruel - no, sadistic! Stop this now!)
Showing posts with label an Open Letter. Show all posts
Showing posts with label an Open Letter. Show all posts
Monday, January 24, 2011
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Dear Johnny, Sorry I missed your birthday...
...and I know this is no good excuse, but honestly, I'm really bad with birthdays. If mine wasn't on a major holiday celebrated by most of the secular and Christian world, I'd forget my own. I got married on Canada day so I wouldn't forget my anniversary. I have a hard time remembering my own children's birthdays, for crying out loud. I guess I didn't plan that out as well as my own mother... not that she got out the calendar when... oh never mind... Hey, I think one of my kids and one of yours share a birthday. Not that it really matters, or that I can even remember, but really, this whole birthday thing is not something I'm good at.
Do people ever tell you that you don't look your age? I get that regularly. In fact just the other night Jethro and I went out to dinner with a bunch of jazz musicians - and yes, I often marvel at the weirdness and wonderfulness of my life - and it was remarked at the table that I appeared to be fifteen. FIFTEEN! I think it was the ponytail. It was really hot that night and I had to get my hair off my neck. Instantly takes ten years off me. Or I guess, twenty-two years off me. Not that I'm good with numbers either.
But enough of my disjointed rambling.
HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY
Do people ever tell you that you don't look your age? I get that regularly. In fact just the other night Jethro and I went out to dinner with a bunch of jazz musicians - and yes, I often marvel at the weirdness and wonderfulness of my life - and it was remarked at the table that I appeared to be fifteen. FIFTEEN! I think it was the ponytail. It was really hot that night and I had to get my hair off my neck. Instantly takes ten years off me. Or I guess, twenty-two years off me. Not that I'm good with numbers either.
(I like your new tattoo. Now I must go read a classic novel that I missed out on.)
Anyways, Happy 45th. You look great no matter what age, and you're just awesome. Keep on doing what you do. And most of all, thank you.
Love,
Heidi the Hick
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
An Open Letter to a Literary Agent
Dear Mr. Literary Agent,
You don't know this, but I have been planning to send you my query letter for about six months. In that time I have revised my book five more times and rewritten my query letter...about fifty times. I have been darn near tears, although that shouldn't make you feel bad because I'm near tears about 47% of the day. It's just that this really, really means a lot to me. That's why I haven't sent it yet.
You have mentioned that you're very efficient, and that when the email comes in, you read it, you make your decision, and you reply.
Even though I know that there are more reasons to say NO than to say YES, I am desperately --yes, desperately-- hoping that this one will be a YES. If it is, I have to be prepared to send you a perfect manuscript. If you say YES and I reply with, "Oh good, just give me another week to polish it up," then you will quickly change your mind and say NO because clearly, this would show that I'm unperfeshnul and clueless.
I want to be perfeshnul! I have at least one clue!
Dude, I am falling apart over here. I can't remember my last shower. I haven't seen my floor or my kitchen counter in two months. There's a shortage of clean undies in the house. The dog is learning to get his own kibble out of the bag. I haven't seen my kids in two days!
It's okay-- I didn't lose them in the mess, honest! They're camping out with friends! I miss them but I decided to take advantage of this time to hammer my book into shape once and for all so that WHEN you ask for it--because my query is so hot--see, I'm thinking positive--mine will be the query that makes you say, "Allow me to represent this novel!"
I am somewhat realistic, Mr. Literary Agent. I know that it might not be you who takes on this book. I would really like it to be you but I have little control over that. I also know that --gasp, choke-- this might not be the book that makes me a published author.
Grip edge of table. Must breathe.
Okay. Had a little bit of an episode there. I'm sorry you had to see that.
And I'm sorry if I seem a little desperate.
It's just that I have wanted to be a writer since I was a kid, and I'm not a kid anymore. I don't just want to see my name on book cover in a store. I want to do this for real. I want to be able to say to my children, "Please leave me in front of my computer for four hours and don't bug me, okay, because I'm working," and have it mean something because I'll get paid for it. I want to take be able to contribute to the family bank account. I don't want the mansion with the black iron gate. I don't want to be Stephen King. I want to be me. Me who writes books.
I want to be able to justify all those hours sitting and typing, and drawing lines through pages that didn't work, and scrawling notes in the margins, and typing all over again. I want my time to be valuable.
And I just want you to know that if you take me on, there's more. The well won't run dry. I'm full of it, I really am!
This will get posted on my blog and probably come back to bite me in the butt because it stinks of newbie stupidity. I'll take the chance, though, just in case you do read this and happen to think to yourself, "Here's somebody who put the work into it and really has her priorities straight."
I've wanted this for so long, and spent most of my adult life talking myself out of it. I'm done running now. I surrender. I'm a writer. It's time we all knew it.
Sorry to burden you with all this emotional turmoil but I have left it out of my query and I think you'll appreciate that.
Now here's a picture of The Best Pony In The World Ever, with a little girl who dreamed of horses and words and stories, who grew up to be a woman with a head full of horses and words and images and metaphors and emotions and stories.
Thank you for taking the time to consider my query,
Sincerely,
Heidi
the Hick
who never totally grew up
and lies awake at night talking to imaginary people.
(Please say yes.)
You don't know this, but I have been planning to send you my query letter for about six months. In that time I have revised my book five more times and rewritten my query letter...about fifty times. I have been darn near tears, although that shouldn't make you feel bad because I'm near tears about 47% of the day. It's just that this really, really means a lot to me. That's why I haven't sent it yet.
You have mentioned that you're very efficient, and that when the email comes in, you read it, you make your decision, and you reply.
Even though I know that there are more reasons to say NO than to say YES, I am desperately --yes, desperately-- hoping that this one will be a YES. If it is, I have to be prepared to send you a perfect manuscript. If you say YES and I reply with, "Oh good, just give me another week to polish it up," then you will quickly change your mind and say NO because clearly, this would show that I'm unperfeshnul and clueless.
I want to be perfeshnul! I have at least one clue!
Dude, I am falling apart over here. I can't remember my last shower. I haven't seen my floor or my kitchen counter in two months. There's a shortage of clean undies in the house. The dog is learning to get his own kibble out of the bag. I haven't seen my kids in two days!
It's okay-- I didn't lose them in the mess, honest! They're camping out with friends! I miss them but I decided to take advantage of this time to hammer my book into shape once and for all so that WHEN you ask for it--because my query is so hot--see, I'm thinking positive--mine will be the query that makes you say, "Allow me to represent this novel!"
I am somewhat realistic, Mr. Literary Agent. I know that it might not be you who takes on this book. I would really like it to be you but I have little control over that. I also know that --gasp, choke-- this might not be the book that makes me a published author.
Grip edge of table. Must breathe.
Okay. Had a little bit of an episode there. I'm sorry you had to see that.
And I'm sorry if I seem a little desperate.
It's just that I have wanted to be a writer since I was a kid, and I'm not a kid anymore. I don't just want to see my name on book cover in a store. I want to do this for real. I want to be able to say to my children, "Please leave me in front of my computer for four hours and don't bug me, okay, because I'm working," and have it mean something because I'll get paid for it. I want to take be able to contribute to the family bank account. I don't want the mansion with the black iron gate. I don't want to be Stephen King. I want to be me. Me who writes books.
I want to be able to justify all those hours sitting and typing, and drawing lines through pages that didn't work, and scrawling notes in the margins, and typing all over again. I want my time to be valuable.
And I just want you to know that if you take me on, there's more. The well won't run dry. I'm full of it, I really am!
This will get posted on my blog and probably come back to bite me in the butt because it stinks of newbie stupidity. I'll take the chance, though, just in case you do read this and happen to think to yourself, "Here's somebody who put the work into it and really has her priorities straight."
I've wanted this for so long, and spent most of my adult life talking myself out of it. I'm done running now. I surrender. I'm a writer. It's time we all knew it.
Sorry to burden you with all this emotional turmoil but I have left it out of my query and I think you'll appreciate that.
Now here's a picture of The Best Pony In The World Ever, with a little girl who dreamed of horses and words and stories, who grew up to be a woman with a head full of horses and words and images and metaphors and emotions and stories.
Thank you for taking the time to consider my query,
Sincerely,
Heidi
the Hick
who never totally grew up
and lies awake at night talking to imaginary people.
(Please say yes.)
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