random house, moans and math, G-d’s body
Today my revised contract arrived from Random House: “The Agreement is hereby amended by substituting ‘April 1, 2011’ for ‘August 15, 20010′” — a sober sentence to read, particularly in legalese. It sounds a lot different from my friendly chat with my agent (Me: I’m never going to get this done by August; Brettne: Don’t worry. Your editor said take the time you need to make this a good book). I’m grateful for the extension, but what if I don’t make the April 1 deadline?
Meanwhile, my son is lying on the sofa moaning about practicing his violin and doing his homework. He never gets to do anything fun, he says. Complain. Complain. If I don’t answer him, he complains some more. Who can write? And, by the way, 2X + 36/468 = 4(x – 17) – (x + 3/19) + 6/91. Solve for x. Last week, I had to relearn math to help him do some problems, not that he usually needs help, but they were doing new stuff in his new school that his teacher assumed he already knew. And, g-d forbid he ask HER for help.
Then, this afternoon, I told a friend I would come into her class and talk about religion and gender (right smack in the middle of prime writing time), but I like her. I wanted to help. A noble impulse. But her students stared at me like I was a wild animal. I tried to ratchet things up so they would get interested, but they did not even flinch when I talked about G-d’s phallus or lack thereof. Probably, I offended them.
Again, who can write?
“Please sign all 4 copies and return to Random House.”