I know last month I was celebrating my blog launch and my first year anniversary as Mariposa’s assistant—and it seems as though I’m celebrating again. (Now, I don’t want you humans to get the impression that we dinosaurs are party reptiles who spend all their time slurping ice cream. We dinosaurs are diligent workers and are entitled to party now and then—this one just happens to fall twice in a row.)
I won’t be celebrating next month, I promise. I plan to fast from parties.
Well, maybe not, because I like parties.
Anyhow, I have a good reason for celebrating, because my boss lady finished her first book in the series! I mean, that’s really not that big a deal, considering she’s already finished it like three times already. For now, she’s fully convinced it’s finished. For now, I’m fully convinced she will not remain fully convinced, but I must tolerate her humanish whims (just between you and me, I think she just keeps going over her book so she has an excuse to celebrate every time she finishes it).
But I suppose it’s my fault. I gave her the idea of these “celebration days,” as she calls them. You see, I saw this quote on Pinterest (the propagator of many problems) by Andre Dubus III that said, “When you finish a draft of a poem or short story or novel, you make sure you go out and celebrate all night long, because whether the world ever notices or not, whether you get it published or not, you did something most people never do: you started, you stuck with, and finished a creative work. And that is a triumph.”
Ever since, she’s been celebrating left and right. It seems to be helping her write faster—even work better than when I threaten to sit on her. Even more than when I actually sit on her, because if she doesn’t make the deadline, she can’t celebrate.
Apparently getting squashed is not as menacing as having no party.
Moving on from human illogic, she celebrated by chomping on Cracker Barrel’s s’more brownie and dressing in her finest dinosaurian clothes (with sauropod earrings to match). After her delectable dinner, we headed to her house to watch Jurassic Park—or at least all but five minutes of it. Because she doesn’t like seeing people amputated and neither do I. (Not that I’m afraid of blood, but I hate it when movies portray dinosaurs as so bloodthirsty. They’re giving our species a bad name!)
My favorite part was when she treated me to her book (a copy of it, that is). It had the same flavor as the original draft, but a lot of the toppings were in a different place than I remember. There was one scene she had at the end, which she put smack dab in the middle! She said she did that to give her story a midpoint, but I wish she’d told me that before I chewed it, because those midpoints can be pointy. Then, she deleted a character (I never liked that guy anyway) and smooshed another guy into his spot (making him an even more unlikable character than the one I didn’t like in the first place). And somehow the word count jumped from 24,000 to 29,000 even though she supposedly deleted a bunch of words.
Do you want to hear the premise of her story? Well, even if you don’t, I’m going to tell you anyway.
Oh wait, I forgot, she told me not to. But she never said I couldn’t give you a few hints about it. So here are eight facts that will tell you absolutely everything and utterly nothing about the book.
1. The story can be summed up in three words: Don’t touch that! The whole dilemma starts when someone touches that which they oughtn’t and somehow leads the protagonist to do what he ought’ve.
2. One thing the protagonist learns in his journey: Never hire a guy who wears a Hawaiian shirt.
3. When in doubt, run over the mailbox.
4. Laughter can be dangerous.
5. Pink stinks.
6. Anything that can explode, will explode, and probably at an inconvenient time.
7. A collage of its utter awesomeness:
8. There’s a Sarcosuchus in it (don’t ask me to try to pronounce it). It’s like a crocodile, only bigger.
What are you celebrating today? What are some facts about your book? Do you celebrate when you complete a novel?