And then I got to thinking how I didn't want to disappoint anyone by posting a snippet and then not being able to actually publish this book for some reason.
And Voila! a post subject presented itself.
I don't know how many times I've stopped myself from doing something out of the fear of disappointment. Disappointing myself. Disappointing others.
What if I can't finish this? What if I do finish it, but it's not as awesome as I thought it was going to be? Either way, someone is going to be disappointed.
Here I sit, telling people about this book and I'm not even sure I can put my money where my mouth is. (And wondering why I told people about this book at all, but I was just so excited to be writing again, I couldn't help myself.)
What I have to do is get over myself. And get over this fear. The only way to never disappoint anyone is to never do anything. Never try anything. Sit in a chair, watching TV, and slowly atrophying. Sounds like a blast. Not.
So, to combat that, here's a snippet of the undercooked, 'way too first drafty' Evil Space Bunnies:
A cute and fluffy bunny hopped across the meadow toward me. His shiny button eyes twinkled and his tiny velvet nose wrinkled. Next thing I knew, the little bastard whipped out some kind of ray gun and shot me in the ankle.
That’s the last donation the ASPCA gets from me, I thought.
Looking back, that’s how this whole thing got started. One minute I’m enjoying a beautiful summer day; the next, I’m running for my life. It was as if the whole species of lagomorphs suddenly decided they’d had enough of being darling, and decided it was high time they took over the job of King of the Forest.
It wasn’t until much later I found out about the space ship.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. My name is Ronald. Ronald Aardboer. I own a small vegetable farm in the middle of Indiana. I raise lettuce, carrots, cabbage… Anything you might get the urge to toss together and drown in the dressing of your choice. People around town call my place Salad Acres. Funny. I didn’t think a thing about it, but I guess my place was the obvious starting point for the invasion.
Like I was saying. The damn thing hopped out across the meadow… You know the one. Just past the lettuce beds and before you get to the pond. And before I knew what was happening, the damn thing shot me in the ankle. Hurt like hell, but it was such a tiny gun it really didn’t damage anything. So I turned tail and ran like the dickens back toward the barn. I keep my 12-gauge in there for scaring off critters. I grabbed the thing, and ran back toward where that rabbit had been. Sure enough, there he was, and he was laughing at me. Well, I cocked the rifle and blew his itty bitty head clear off.
I probably shouldn’t have done that, thinking about it now. ‘Cause it really pissed off the hundred or so of the little bugger’s buddies. They came flying out of the woods and out of the long grass, screaming to beat the band, and each of ‘em had a little ray gun.
This may or may not be a whole book at some point down the road. So don't get your hopes up. Let's just bask in the happy of my actually writing again. K?
*Which is why I don't do Thanksgiving turkeys. Or any whole turkey. Every turkey, every time - pink in the middle. Years ago, Hubs took over turkey duty. Probably to save himself from potential food poisoning. Give me any other meat and I am awesome. Put a turkey in front of me, and I lose my ability to cook. :shrug: