This is how I feel upon reading my midnight gibberish rants. And then the manuscript that happened while I was ranting.
Here are some actual, unedited excerpts of what I said last night to my friend (editor) via Facebook message. Verbatim. You can't make up stuff like this.
(My main character Meg is a spirit in the underworld--hence the references to death.)
"Now I am somewhat tempted to try making grilled cheese sandwiches on my radiator next year. Because God knows that thing is attempting to set my room on fire anyway."
"I'm just going to go ahead and blame my procrastinatory nature on the fact it is summer. It's so much easier to write during the school year when you know you have to get up early to go to class. So you have to write instead of read Maureen Johnson's funny blog posts."
"I hate you, Meg. You disgust me with your groveling! Go die! Again!"
"I hate Maureen for being so successful and funny. Stupid successful funny people. I bet they just wake up, get into the shower, and then notice a shiny, brand-new book on the ledge next to the soap. And then it gets published, and everybody drinks champagne. Then they write blogs and lie to the world, pretending like the book fairies don't deliver their books by magic."
On roadtripping to the YA author mansion - "And maybe we'll find the wing where Stephenie Meyer and J.K. Rowling eat ice cream sandwiches and do cartwheels all day in their piles of money and merchandise. They probably laugh at the other YA authors, singing, 'We are better than you because we have midnight opening parties and movies.'"
"Okay...that was a lie. It's 1 am, and I am maybe halfway done [with my goal of finishing the chapter]. I am such a procrastinator. This is unconvincing crap. If I were dead, I would never behave this way."
"OKAY. I lied to you. This is not coming out tonight. Nothing in the world can make me finish crapping out this chapter. Nothing except many tears, an injection of caffeine, the assistance of all nine muses and Poseidon, possibly Percy Jackson holding me at gunpoint/promising marriage, and a copy of Twilight, which I do not have, since Bekah stole it. BUT. I am getting up early (the definition of this word is questionable) to finish. And get at least halfway through Chapter 3. I will. I don't think sitting here and staring at the screen is being very conducive. And I'll probably only churn out unintelligible garble anyway."
This last part is funny to me, since most of what I said is unintelligible garble. It's a wonder that half of what I wrote last night is even usable. I did get 2,300 words, so it wasn't a total loss. So you see, this is what I am really like. You should probably be grateful you won't ever meet me in person, and only know the lovable, sane facade you see over the internet.
PS I do not actually hate Maureen Johnson.