Pants.

Lately I’ve been a little sensitive about my size. I am a pregnant lady, no doubt about it. And this is my third time being a pregnant lady so I should be used to it by now.

Right?

Every day last week, every day, sometimes twice in a day, someone has made a comment about my body.

“Whoa! Are you having twins?”

“Holy cow. Any day now, right?”

“Oh my, you are gigantic. Does it hurt to walk?”

One lady in church, across a crowded room said, “Oh my gosh, Ann Dee! You are huge! When is that baby coming?”

I sort of flipped out right then.

TWO MONTHS! I yelled. TWO MONTHS!! ( the whole room staring at me now). AND IT’S NOT TWINS! I added, for effect.

She nodded. Okay. Okay, she said, obviously scared.

I turned, my head held high, and waddled out of the room.

In the car I told my husband about it.

I may have over-reacted a few minutes ago, I said. About a comment someone made about my belly.

You? Over-react? Never, he said.

Ha ha ha.

The day before we had been out raking up leaves, getting ready for spring. I’d leaned over to pick up a pile and my pants split.  My only comfortable semi-wearable (and admittedly three pregnancies-old and perhaps worn a few too many days in a row) maternity cargo pants. Split.

I gasped.

Cam and the boys looked at me. What? Cam said.

Look,I said, showing him the hole.

What?

LOOK!

You just did that?

Yes, I just did that.

Then he started laughing. LAUGHING.

You’re laughing?

Uh huh, he said.

You. Are. Laughing.

He nodded. Kept raking. Why would you wear those pants to do yard work anyway? You should have changed into sweats or something.

The boys were staring at the hole in my pants and I was seething.

Later. When we’d moved to the front yard, I said, sweat pants?

What?

Sweat pants.

What?

That’s what you say when your pregnant wife has an extremely dramatic event happen to her.

Extremely dramatic event?

Extremely.

What did you want me to say?

Maybe something like, oh I’m so sorry. Or, it doesn’t matter. It was probably just the way you bent over. Something, you know sympathetic. Why do you have to always respond to me like a man?

He looked at me. Why did you split your pants like a man?

Let’s all take a moment to think about this question.

What does this have to do with writing? Nothing. So why am I writing it? I don’t know.  Did I start laughing after he said this? yes. Do I think I’m a little irrational and overly-dramatic? Maybe. Does that make me a better writer? Probably not. I just wanted to warn anyone who may see me in the next eight weeks . . . beware and whatever I say, don’t take it personally. I’m not responsible.

xo.

P.S. Who wants a writing marathon?

Postedit: I have to say, I’ve been feeling bad about making my husband seem like some kind of beast. He’s not. A beast. We’d been having a laughy day and this incident (though I’m sure the writing doesn’t show it) was pretty funny. Cam knows me well enough to not make a comment like that if I’m on the verge of tears or if he knows I am really feeling sad. On another day, splitting my pants probably would have brought tears but on that day, it was just one more thing. This is probably the type of story I should tell in person rather than write on the internet. Or maybe not tell at all. Sometimes I can’t help myself.

Avoiding the Rewrite Because It Might be Hard (Who Am I Kidding? It Will be Hard)

Guess what?
BEFORE So this happened sort of completely by accident, but a few days ago I was talking to one my bestie friends, Cheri P Earl and I told her this idea I had for a book.

“This is how I want it to go,” I said, “and if you want to write it with me, I’d love to share the idea with you.”

So then I told her everything I was thinking (like aliens and Twilight–yes, the book– and things I hate [like-we-all-know-what-but-I-won’t-say-it-here-because-no-one-can-prove-what-I-was-thinking-in-a-court-of-law-if-I-don’t-say-it-but-I-just-think-it, right?] and earth and what’s selling now and how I never understand the marketplace and etc). That’s how our conversations go. Usually I’m complaining. I seriously wonder why I have friends.

After I talked with Cheri, I kind of wrote down a little something something in a  notebook BY HAND while I was sitting in church.

BEFORE BEFORE BEFORE All this time, all this thinking elsewhere, I have a book rewrite in the back of my head. A huge rewrite for the DD because my editor thought the second half of the book (where I tried to have a plot) sucked.

BEFORE BEFORE I just finished another novel and sent it to my agent who sent it off to another editor.

And I did the writing on that first and then second-ish draft AFTER I heard from the first DD editor. I had to get that draft done. Before the revisions on the other book started. Makes sense, right? Right?

BEFORE Cheri and I went to lunch on Saturday and then we talked for a way long time about different things–but a little bit about the new book idea that we want to be three books but how will THAT happen because DD is sitting there, looming there, and it’s been a couple of weeks now and What have you done, Derrick? Nothing! Absolutely nothing!

YESTERDAY I meant to just send Cheri this part that I had written in my little notebook and then I did an extra word here and then another there (I usually DON’T write on Sundays) and wrote something funny here and something a little funnier there–and the next thing I knew someone a lot like Rick Walton (but teen-sized–which I am pretty sure is a lot like the old-size I know now) was tapping on the fictional mobile unit window.

That’s right! I started another book! A funny book! And I can’t wait to dig around in these characters and all this humor and I can’t WAIT to write this ONE thing I’ve been talking about to Cheri Pearl Earl forever. And now I have a beginning! And we all know how sexy a beginning is, right? Right?

NOW Today I’m rewriting the DD.
It’s been sitting in my brain for some time and I need to let what has been moving around in there get out onto paper.

I think I can do it. It’s scary. That’s the truth. The last time I sold a novel before I finished it, I nearly had to run away to the Islands (where ever they are and, by the way, how can you run to them?) to finish it. I swore that I would never do that again. Sell an unfinished book. And then I let Secret Agent Steve talk me into sending the DD out. And he sold it. And guess where I need to go now? The Islands.

Sheesh.

No.

I’m staying home and getting this done.

And the sooner I get it done the sooner I can start on this book with Cheri.

And my other idea of a paranormal romance where everyone loses their lives. Including the super-sexy-everyone-thinks-she’s-the-most-beautiful-girl-in-the-undead-world.

I can’t wait!