nightmares | Beth Hull

Allegory of the Revision Cave*

Posted on August 17, 2012 by Beth Hull

You know it’s bad when you’re dreaming about revisions. Here’s the dream I had the other night, in comic format – although there was nothing comic about it. Har har.

Nothing comic about that, either.

Okay, the dream already:

Yeah, kind of a bummer.

The good news is that my agent didn’t hate my revisions. No, she wasn’t thrilled with the new ending, but that’s fixable. Hardly throwing the whole thing in the garbage.

Some days this week I was like this:

On those days I felt pretty good, type-type-typing away. (Actually, for all this, substitute “days” for “nights” because I’m momming it during the day and revising at night, often taking breaks to flip over my little stomach-sleeper.) I tackled new ideas, brainstormed, ~~wasted~~ spent a lot of time doing the Scrivener tutorial (LOVE Scrivener), and generally felt like a winner.

But there were a couple of days that looked like this:

I think the drawing says enough.

*Plato did not endorse this blog post. He wants absolutely nothing to do with it. He scoffs at my amateur drawings.

The Whoofles (pl.)

Posted on January 4, 2012 by Beth Hull

The Whoofle (singular) looks a little like an armadillo, according to Z. She is, thus far, the only one to have any knowledge of the Whoofle. She’s quite afraid of it. She worries about it eating her toys, and even eating her (so glad I hid that “Travels of Babar” book with the cannibals). It’s sad that we’ve worked so hard to keep her from scary things, that she’s resorted to creating scary things out of her imagination. We have to prop up Z’s giant stuffed triceratops, Penelope, to stand guard at night. And she has Mr. Fox to hold, as well. And her turtle star night light.

The Whoofles (plural) look a lot like your average group of four-, five- and six-year-old girls. The Whoofles travel together in packs during the day, and don’t include everyone in their fun. They are, I think, far scarier than the Whoofle (sing.).

Dropping Z off at school yesterday, I was a mixture of jubilation and uncertainty. I was looking forward to some quality writing time, but unsure how she’d handle her first day back after two weeks off of school. But she was so excited about going back and playing “Princess Beauty” (a new game – I think it may have come from a Disney princess book her cousin shared with her).

But when we dropped her off, the other girls didn’t flock to engage her in play, and she stood there, bouncing and excited, by herself. Before walking across the street to our car, we spied her on the playground and watched as one of these little girls basically told her she couldn’t play with them (we couldn’t hear the conversation, but the body language and Z’s resultant lack of bouyancy were clear enough).

I came home and it was hard not to cry into my breakfast.

I didn’t recognize any of the girls, so I’m pretty sure their moms aren’t reading this. So I can easily give way to angry venting and vilify these little three-to-six-year-olds to my heart’s content.

Jerks.

That’s all the venting I’m willing to do, because I’m sure once upon a time I was a Whoofles, and Z may someday be a Whoofles too, although I will do everything in my power to teach her compassion & inclusiveness (is that even a word?). And I want to show her it’s possible to a) make friends who aren’t cruel and b) have fun by oneself. And while I’m at it, I’d like to somehow get her to figure out how to solve all the world’s problems and also make enough money to set Husband and myself up in a nice retirement home someday. Maybe in a warm place, by the ocean. Surrounded by our non-Whoofles friends.