This day may conjure up all sorts of frightening possibilities for some. As for me, I laugh in the face of Friday the 13th. I don’t know why this day has such a bad rep, anyway. Yes, I know, on this day in 1307 the King of France, bless his greedy little heart, gave the order to arrest the knights of the Order of the Temple on charges of heresy. But hey, this is the 21st century. There is no king of France any more, and I can’t recall the last time someone was burned at the stake for heresy.
I’m not superstitious by nature. I don’t believe a rejection has anything to do with black cats crossing my path, or that the 10 chapters I lost to a corrupted disk was caused by the mirror that broke into smithereens against the bathroom tiles. My husband fell off a ladder and injured himself quite badly, but he was standing on it, not walking under it. As for Karma, I have no tangible proof that people who do bad things in this life come back as grubs or gnats in the next life, although I like to believe that this kind of justice exists. What goes around comes around, I hope.
When it comes to my writing, I’m guided more by rules than superstition. There are certain rules that I absolutely live by. My three primary rules are:
1) Nobody, and I mean nobody, is allowed to read my WIP until it’s ready for my editor’s eyes. When my husband walks into the office, I hastily scroll down to a blank screen so that he can’t see what I’m writing. Mind you, he can’t read it anyway without his glasses on, but I’m not taking any chances. What if he had a Lasik procedure without telling me?
2) I never tell anyone who isn’t family or close friends that I write romance novels, for the simple reason that I’m not a very boastful person. Only if asked will I tell, and then I draw myself up to full height (which at 5’ 4” isn’t all that formidable) and proclaim proudly that I write romance novels while shooting them a death-ray glare, daring them to make a snide remark.
3) I never, ever tell anyone what I earn. When asked, I simply ask back, “Why do you want to know?” That takes the nosey so-and-so back just long enough for me to deftly change the subject.
When I write, my rituals go something like this:
First: I say hello to the picture of my dearly-departed dog, Max, that I keep on my monitor, give his ear a scratch and run my finger along the single hair taped to the picture.
Second: I give a little pat to each of the stuffed animals lounging on my speakers and atop my monitor.
Third: I adjust my chair. First up a little, then down a little, until it’s right back to where it was when I sat down.
Fourth: I check my e-mail. I can’t write knowing there may be spam lurking nearby.
Fifth: I run the tip of an envelope between the keys of my keyboard to dislodge any dog hair from Indio, my current dog, that may have settled there. Can’t type on a hairy keyboard.
Sixth: I call Indio to join me. Once he’s settled beneath the desk with his head resting on my feet, I’m ready to begin. The rest is up to Fate.
There are also certain rules/rituals that I follow when I read.
My feet must be propped up.
There must be a bowl of some kind of goody close by from which I can dip into as I’m reading. I’ve come to judge a book not by its cover, but by how much is left in the bowl when I’m finished reading. The more in the bowl, the better the book.
If I’m reading inside, the TV must be on, but with the mute button pressed. Don’t ask me why. There’s no logic to this. It’s just the way it is. If I’m reading outside, I must first make sure the squirrels are fed so that they don’t interrupt me looking for their daily ration of peanuts. There’s this huge blackbird, however, that has brass you-know-what’s and no respect and will keep coming back for more no matter how much I give him. And one of the squirrels tried to jump on my head looking for peanuts (as if I keep them hidden in my pony tail), so I make sure to have Indio out there with me to run interference.
If a book is not to my liking after the first couple of chapters, back on the shelf it goes. If, on the other hand, I love it, I will barrel through it like a runaway train until I get about three-quarters of the way through, and then, like a piece of fine dark chocolate, I savor it slowly, letting each word melt into my consciousness until I reach the end. The same goes for my writing. I tend to slow down as I reach the final few chapters. Just can’t let go of those characters, I guess. Maybe it’s because their lives are so much more interesting and exciting than mine.
Like I said, I’m not superstitious. Who needs superstitions when you’re a slave to idiotic rules and rituals? But I can’t be the only one who does nonsensical things when reading and writing. Are there any other reading and/or writing quirks out there?
