[Note: for those of you who read my posts at Romancing the Blog, you already saw this one. But I'm hoping to blanket the web, in case Santa doesn't read at RTB ;-)]
I’ve been a good girl this year. Honest. I met all of my deadlines (well…most), turned in great books (well…that’s a matter of opinion), and was nice to my family throughout it all.
Okay, that last one was a total lie. But, if you look at my overall year-end resume, it’s heavier on the good side. Honest.
So, here’s what I’m proposing: while you’re loading up my kids with toys that will sit around uselessly while the children come into my office every five minutes with a “he said/she said” crisis, perhaps you could throw in a couple goodies for me.
Simply for my sanity. I don’t have much of it left and would like to retain what little was left over after getting married and giving birth to two children.
Please leave me the following:
1. One guard for my office. One of those serious dudes who stand outside the Queen’s palace would be good. They don’t even have to wear the silly hats, as long as they are adept at sorting out the fake “he stuck his tongue out at me” crises from the real “I’ve cut off my arm” crises.
2. Two editors bearing contracts. Enough work to keep me employed for a year, thereby eliminating my continual “they hate me and they’re never going to publish my drivel again” panic attacks.
3. Three agents leaping. Ideally, a film agent, an audio books agent and a foreign rights agent, all continually busing making new deals to expand my bank account. They don’t have to do cartwheels or anything; just have them knock on Mel Gibson’s door with a romantic comedy he can’t resist (and have that guy from “Prison Break” star as my hero. Make frequent set visits from the author a requirement of the film options).
4. Four weeks on the best-seller list. Notice, I only asked for four. No need to be a glutton here and ask for oh, a record to break J.K. Rowling’s. I’m willing to make room for others. Notice also how well number four works with number three—I’m trying to make your job easy, Clause.
5. Five golden rings. Hey, if I can’t have the contracts, I’ll take jewelry.
6. Six years of “Chocolate of the Month” club. Deliver all months at one time to save on postage. I need to replenish my rejection letter arsenal.
7. Seven talented artists. For just one year, Clause, I’d like the people on my covers to actually look like the ones I wrote about. No more balding heroines and heroes wearing black socks in the summer. (Unless it’s the guy from “Prison Break.” I’ll forgive black anything on him.)
8. Eight five-star reviewers. My ego is fragile, Clause, and I’m a total glutton for punishment, so, please, next time I Google my titles, have those five star reviews ready and waiting. Otherwise, you’ll need to double the quantities in number six.
9. Nine maids to do my bidding. I’m working very hard on cultivating my inner Barbara Cartland. I can’t be cooking Kraft Macaroni and cheese while wearing a feather boa. It is, after all, a fire hazard.
10. Ten daily minutes. To be all by myself. Yes, to go to the bathroom without someone knocking on the door, asking how to divide fractions or complaining that their Science teacher is one of Stephen King’s unleashed monsters. If you can pull off the above miracles, surely this one will be a piece of cake.
11. Eleven pens that work. There is, I’m sure, a pen or two in my house that works. Yank them out of the kids’ backpacks while you’re here and put them in my stocking.
12. Twelve months of money. I’d like a revolution in the publishing industry that would pay us all monthly. I can’t possibly budget on unknown royalties paid every six months. A girl needs new shoes on a regular basis, you know.
If all that won’t fit in my stocking, feel free to pile it on my desk. It’ll have plenty of other piles for company, trust me.
There’s extra milk and cookies in it for you. And a nice, autographed romantic comedy for Mrs. Clause. In return, I will continue to pay out ungodly sums of money every December in your name and keep the Clause name in high regard around my house.
Have a merry one, big guy, and watch those sugarplums. One gets stuck in the wrong pipe and we’re all singing the Christmas blues.