Little known Karen fact: In junior high, I was the "Lady Panther Cub" basketball manager. Non-surprising addendum: I hated every minute of it. But I hated exercise more.
The coach was evil. Like Cruella De Vil, but with 8th grade girls. Taunting, teasing, you name it. She even sued one of the high school players for "emotional distress" after the girl accidentally backed into the coach's BMW in the school parking lot and left a tiny dent. Evil Coach wasn't even in her car at the time.
And then there were game days.
Bear in mind, these are 8th grade girls. There was a strict fingernail-length rule (and I could see the point of it). On game days, fingernails could protrude no further than the tip of one's finger. For most girls, this meant a sliver of white showing, at best. This was the rule. Every. Single. Game.
And yet, how many times did I have to hunt down a fingernail file on the bus for some whiny player who had forgotten hers? We'd pull into the opposing gym's parking lot, frantic scraping everywhere.
But why the frantic scraping? Because we had an evil coach. If the nails weren't short enough, she'd cut them off with a pair of office scissors. Have you ever cut your nails with a pair of office scissors? Didn't think so. Because it's evil.
I actually have a point to all this. And it has to do with writing. Imagine that.
As many of you know, I'm revising my novel. (1/3 through...woo hoo!) The way I look at it, the harder I am on my work, the easier it will be in the long run. Filing your writing down to the nub is not an easy task. But those scissors of rejection feel as blunt as they look.