Oh, the waiting. She is the hardest part. Every hour that goes by without my hearing anything about IN HER SHOES is an hour I assume my editor's spending trying to come up with just the right words to tell me that the book is an unpublishable piece of crap.

I'm trying to keep busy. I've already rearranged the furniture, torn through AS LONG AS SHE NEEDS ME (a cute and breezy read) and LIT LIFE (very impressive, but scarifying -- should really not be reading about authors with huge first hits and failed lives that followed at this particular moment in my life), and THE FOURTH HAND, which I didn't hate as much as some of the critics did, although I do think that John Irving had the poop-tossing hand surgeon in there not for any thematic or plot-related reason, but mostly because he was just so in love with having thought up the conceit of a guy who scoops up dog do with his lacrosse stick and flings it into the Charles River. Lord knows if I'd thought of that I would have found some excuse to put it in a book. And I loved Irving's descriptions of the boathouse, the Wisconsin lake, the photograph of the bathing suits, floating, empty, side by side.

Back at the ranch, the wait goes on. I've done the dishes. I've folded laundry. I've walked the dog to the point that he doesn't want to be walked any more. I've answered email. I've answered phone calls. I'm going to start cleaning closets soon. It's that bad.

Meanwhile, Amazon.com sent me a notice this morning, inviting me to buy Suzanne Finnamore's The Zygote Chronicles (which I've already read, and really liked), and telling me that my book's on sale! Thirty percent off! I felt like writing back and saying, "Hey, thanks, but I already know how that one ends!

Jen