No soup for you

I’ve been writing a lot, lately. Pretty steady, since quitting the day job at the beginning of December.

In the last two and a half months I’ve:

Finished my third novel for Mills & Boon.

Got a response from an agent, looking at my contemporary, single title. Instead of running away screaming, or walking slowly and shaking her head, (the predominant responses so far) she recommended revisions.

***I’ll take a moment here, for the non-writers reading this. Before I started working toward publication, I always thought that published writers got it all right on the first go ’round. And it was only a matter of checking the spelling, once it got to an editor or agent.

Turns out, that almost never happens. You hand it off, and await the inevitable revision letter, which can be anything from a major trauma to a piece of cake***

I Was happy with the revision suggestions from the agent, so I spent a couple of weeks rewriting the contemporary, and sent it back to NYC.

Started a fourth novel for Mills & Boon.

Got the revision letter on book 3, which was blissfully pain free, and rewrote that as well, then sent it back to London for another look.

So.
Busy, busy, busy.

But I’ve reached a point where I am temporarily caught up, and my next deadline isn’t likely to be until June.

I must now deal with the aftermath of spending two and a half months, chained to the desk. Time to start the New Year’s resolutions, balance the physical with the mental, stop eating crap, start exercising again…

Which is why, when the family decided to have Mexican on Saturday, before going to “Ghost Rider” I decided that chicken enchiladas in sour cream, or chili rellenos, were not healthy.

I went for the soup.

I was the last one to be served and was more than a little hungry when my meal arrived. It was a lovely, big bowl of low fat, spicy tomato and vegetable, with a lot of shrimp floating in it. Chock full of seafood and virtue. I chose well.

And then, trouble ensued. The shrimp had their tails.

I had a tablespoon, a knife and a fork. And no side plate. I’m not up on Emily Post, but I figured grabbing the little buggers with my fingers and straining them through my teeth until the tail popped off was probably a breach of etiquette.

So, I stabbed them with a fork, and went to work carefully with the knife.

Not carefully enough. This resulted in what the family called “Sea-world with soup”. My light green sweater was liberally spattered red and my husband was wiping his pants with a napkin.

And then, the waiter arrived with my side plate.

Gee. Thanks.

I finally had a place to cut up the shrimp. And even better: the plate contained fresh cilantro, onions, and lime. The soup was good before, but now, it was fantastic.

Until, the lime wedge slipped out of my fingers and landed in the soup like bright green Shamu.

My husband slid his chair all the way to the end of the table, out of the splash zone.

#1 Son: “Hey Dad, how’s the soup?”
DH: “Just great.”
#1 Son: “But how does it feel, Dad. How does it feel…”

It could have been worse. At least the mariachis stayed away from our table.

They were probably afraid of the soup.