So says Slim Pickens in Mel Brooks's immortal Blazing Saddles, perfectly encapsulating my feelings at the moment.
Right now I'm in the midst of a project for which I've already read six books in the last month, with at least that many to go in the next two weeks--I have to come up with 3500 words, and so far I can think of only 100 or so to say. Pressure + fear: it happens every time. Why do I do it?
To see my finished work? Today I get offprints of an article I finished a year or so ago--that should restore my equilibrium. I'm reading it--hey, not too bad, and when I get to the end, they MISSPELL the name of the group of writers that I wrote about!
Thank you, my publisher, for making me feel so much better...and least the check didn't bounce.
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