The majority of you lovely folk who frequent this blog don't actually know me, so you have no idea that my lack of emotion borders on the robotic. My best friend Ashley thinks I'm secretly either a man or a serial killer because my emotional range seems limited to 'amused' or 'not amused.' Although I have been known to squeeze out a 'mildly concerned' if there's some real risk of a tragic event or major financial catastrophe, etc. I think she sometimes purposely picks sad movies in the hopes that I'll break down and blubber because Bambi's mother died (again) or that old man from 'Up' (still) misses his wife. Doesn't work. I don't know them.
But it's not that I don't have emotions; it's that I save them all up for my characters. I find crying silly unless I need to flush something from my eyes. Puffy eyes and damp sleeves, dehydration...no, thank you.
Being an emotionally-devoid monster of sorts (haha), I'm also very practical. I never allow myself to get too hopeful about...well, anything. Disappointment makes me unhappy, and I find that if I expect a 'no,' the rejection and the frustration goes down easier. Well, you all know how that feels; you're writers. You know the sting of the 'this was interesting but not for me please take your scribblings elsewhere' form rejection letter.
The other day, however, as I drove home from work, I allowed myself a brief 'what if' moment. What if I got my book published? What if I get home to find a letter in my mailbox from a publisher that says "We love 'Eyes of Stone' and we'd like to offer you a three-book contract"? What if the masses grab ahold of it with both hands and love it, and I get to stay home and write for a living?
Well, I tell you, I actually teared up. I had a real-life Seinfeld moment: "What is this salty discharge? This is horrible!" I had to put on "Furry Walls" and "Lonely Island" before my wildly out of control emotions caused me to secrete enough saline to actually drip down my cheek. What if someone had seen me? All my street cred gone in an instant because I briefly entertained the idea of all my dreams coming true. Horrifying.
But now I know that I have to read all my mail in a closet so that when I someday do get that letter, I won't appear as a blubbering fool in front of the dogs or my husband or (heaven forbid) Ashley. She'd pee her pants in delight and whip out a camera phone so fast...and then I'd have to kill her.