So. I just now put the finishing touches on my book’s manuscript and I’m so happy I could shit myself. Hell, getting finished with this fucking manuscript has been so traumatic to me I might shit myself anyway. Do it for shits and giggles.
When I first started this book, I began the endeavor under false impressions. I had already written a book of some 287,436 words that I had completed in less than sixty days. But I hadn’t worked with a professional editorator on that first book, so I had unrealistic expectations as to the level of difficulty authors experience when authorating.
See, because my brain is so full of shit, said shit swirling in volumes of thoughts, I am what the bloggie world calls a “content machine”. Like Squatlo, I can pump-out words with great alacrity.
However, after working with an editorator on my new book, I became educated on the difference between word-count and quality. Squatlo’s stuff is quality word-count while most of mine is mindless prattle. But like my Gram says, she’ll say, “Who gives a shit, Mooner. Ya put a pretty package on it and folks’l pay ya fer it.”
I mostly agree with Gram’s assessment, but after working so fucking hard to do a good job, I actually developed some pride of authorship. Let me assure you that pride is a two-edged sheet of paper. It can bolster your ego and give you nasty little cuts at a turn of the page.
Which reminds me. I finally fulfilled my promise to take the Squirt and Eighty-three fishing yesterday afternoon, and my sides still ache from laughing at the two of them. You guys already know that Squirt fills the role of bobber-watcher, vigilantly checking the corks for signs of a bite. Once she sees the first indication that a fish is nudging a bait, she goes on full point and starts vibrating like a six battery dildo.
Not that I would know anything about a six-battery dildo.
So, we get down to our dock and I get five lines in the water, each bait hanging from a red and white plastic bobber. And answer me this. Bobbers have been called bobbers since long before I was born. So why does my word processor go are red and squiggly with the word bobber? What the fuck is up with that?
The word/name Oprah is accepted with warmth and bobber gets spit out like a bite of bad sushi? I’d like to meet the silly fuckers who decide when to go all red and squiggly. Fucking computer geek word police asswipes.
Anyway, Eighty-three is new to fishing since she was held captive at Cat Lady Cat Prison for the first eight months of her life. The only time she ever got out was the two times she escaped, the second of which was when she hid in my GTO and we brought her home. Most experiences are new experiences for the cat.
We’d been at it for fewer than five minutes– I’d just managed to crack open the first Carta Blanca of the day and take my seat, when Squirt went into high alert. I looked out and saw a bobber start to do a little dance, and the tiny dog was almost vibrating her skin off. Scared the cat, so she starts hissing and spitting, dancing sideways like cats seem to do. The dog is buzzing around from her vibrating and the cat is bouncing back and forth like a crazed marionette.
I started laughing my ass off. After a few minutes of this, Squirt says to me, she says, “Le poisson a avale el gancho de mierda– etwas zu ton, for shitsakes!” Each word was forced between her teeth as she vibrated around the wooden planks of our fishing dock.
I looked out at the water and sure enough, the bobber was under water and moving away from the shore. “I don’t think he swallowed the hook, little lady, but we do need to pull him in.” And with that, I lifted the long cane pole and brought the fish to the dock.
It was a huge sun perch, one of the local blue gill varieties. He was almost a pound and still full of piss and vinegar when I unhooked and laid him on the dock. He’s flipping and flopping, attempting to work his way back to the water, when Eighty-three starts sneaking in on it like a lioness on the prowl.
She looks like a miniature Animal Channel program– ears back, body low, each paw making a quiet, stealthy approach to the fish. The fish stopped moving and in a split second Eighty-three pounced. She grabbed it on the back right behind the head and got this triumphant look on her face, all proud of her hunting skills and putting food on the table. And that is when the seven-pound cat got a fishing lesson from a one-pound perch.
The fish went nuts, flipping and flopping like crazy. I hadn’t taken any of the fight out when I landed the fish, so he had plenty left for the cat. The cat is new to all of this and she’s half full of the blood lust of a hunt, and half scared to death. Squirt and I are both laughing our asses off now.
What ensued was a fifteen-minute battle to the death, which the cat won. When the fish finally made it’s last wiggle, it was scaled, skinned and shredded into thin strips. I cooked its remains for dinner, and the cat shared it with the Squirt.
Wait. I just digressed the ever-loving shit out of us. I finished my book, everyone. It’s ready to go to the publisher!
Full Rising Mooner will soon be coming to a bookseller near you. I’m cracking a cold Carta Blanca. Manana, y’all.