Betta' Beta.

Clarence my cross-eyed muse and I, and the other I, were having a conversation. See, I’m kind of more or less done with the drafting of the manuscript heretofore known (to me anyway) as “Bea and the Smart Kids.”

Drafting, yes...editing, no. That’s being difficult. I’ve been working on the thing for so little and for so long that not a one of the three of us (Clarence, I or I) can even comprehend it as more than an overly-familiar pablum of uninspired blah-ness. I probably need to work on something else. But, you know, there’s this problem I have with not completing something. I’ve not-completed something in the past and it doesn’t feel right. The not-completed thing wanders the deserted highways of my imaginary world like a waif in the night (ok, it’s not really that pathetic...it’s more like that broken window screen you never fixed, in the garage.

Anyway, Clarence says it’s my fault for not showing up for work often enough, and I blame me, and then it’s this whole merry-go-round of buck-passing. That kind of merry-go-round they used to have at children’s play parks with four different colored textured metal quadrants, and galvanized hand-rails. You’d spin the other kids until somebody either fell off and bonked her head or barfed, and no parents thought of municipal liability.

Normally, at this point, I’d edit to a fare-thee-well while still managing to overlook a handful of blatant typos and some really awkward constructions, then I’d sketch some fifth-rate cover art and try to disguise its dorkiness with watercolor paint, and then I’d send the whole assemblage to Lulu, which would happily provide me with another box of books to store in the closet. Trimmed in turquoise, or maybe yellow.

Trouble is, neither I nor I nor Clarence can summon enough love for the manuscript to jump into that solid book creation phase. But we’ve also agreed that we’re not sending it to live with the waifly window screen. So I think we’re going to (for now) settle for beta testing. (“Beta testing?” says Clarence. “You mean that cloud-o-sphere called emilygillespieclement.com?” “Yes,” says I. “It’s very much like The Island of Misfit Toys, only the residents aren’t as cute as the doll in the gingham dress who had no apparent flaw. And we give them marshmallows for their campfire. Don’t look at me that way.” Clarence suggests that perhaps betta testing--where we drop it into a tank of small pugnacious fish would be better. I ignore that.)

Anyway, I think I’ve got Clarence on my page now because until he gets his eyes fixed you can’t expect anything more brilliant to roll out of our fiction mill. So, yes. Pretty soon I’ll be mounting the chapters under the heading “new but stale" or something.

But first I have to at least try to edit. A little. I will leave some terrible prose though. Don’t worry.