Have A Drink & Shut Up Woman
“The opposite of Zen is what? I’m whatever that is.”
I’m suck so hard at relaxing. The actual act of chilling part — and letting your brain just sit there, doing nothing, wanting nothing. Maybe it’s a parent thing. Maybe it’s a me thing. (Probably a me thing.) Or maybe it’s the perimenopause. Sh*t, sorry fam — wasn’t trying to go there today, but here we are.
Since Jacob and I got back from Hawaii, I think I’ve actually exhaled — like real, full-body, shoulders-down exhale — maybe four times. I counted. That’s how bad it is. My brain keeps building these self-imposed handcuffs (I get into them in the book too, different context, same cuffs). The b*tches manufacture urgency over absolutely nothing. Nothing is on fire. No one is dying that I know. The fact remains that my nervous system failed to get the memo (Rude).
There’s a Brothers Osborne song, “I’m Not for Everyone,” and a couple of lines might as well be my biography:
” If I was a church, I'd be hanging with the sinners.” Or “Some people, they drink too much. Some people don't drink enough.”
I don’t drink enough and one thousand percent cuss in church. Sorry mom.
School’s out. Friday, my teenager planted herself in my office doorway and ran the full interrogation: when are we leaving, where are we going, what are we doing? Summer is a few days old, and she already needs the itinerary laminated, ideally by yesterday. So the blog didn’t go out. Sorry.
Today’s plan was: wake up refreshed, write something brilliant, land in your inbox looking like I have my whole life together. (Lol. Sure.) Instead — dropped my girl at the lake to get on her dad’s boat and go fishing, came upstairs to write, and somehow 1 hour and 47 minutes and three reheats of the same sad cup of coffee later (same cup, I didn’t even get a new mug, that’s the level we’re at), here I am. Zen instrumentals playing so my brain stops trying to multitask a to-do list mid-sentence. The opposite of Zen is what? I’m whatever that is.
We do this to ourselves, mostly — the extras, the refusal to slow down, the need to have an opinion about everything happening within fifteen feet of us at all times. Sometimes that drive gets stuff done. Sometimes it turns you into the woman who decides the kitchen counter clutter needs to be incinerated, immediately, no negotiating, and becomes a one-woman tornado of rage cleaning that nobody asked for and everyone in the house is now quietly avoiding.
Anyway. The book. The words still got done. I guess the handcuffs are good for something.
One chapter left. After that, I need to step away from the vehicle for a hot minute before I even think about agents. Word count’s at 55,136. And “query” has officially started rattling around in my brain — which feels like progress and also, frankly, terrifying.
MANUSCRIPT STATS
📖 19 chapters. All structurally complete.
✅ Enrichment + marketing edit: 18 of 19 done.
🔄 One chapter left. ONE.
📝 Word count: 55,136
🍸 Status: stepping away from the vehicle the second it’s done.
👀 Query letters are now a real thought in my brain. Send wine.
