I spent days researching bloggers and book reviewers to send my debut novel to. I compiled an impressive spreadsheet of some 200 names, email addresses, preferred genres and submission requirements. If my high school keyboarding teacher hadn’t already retired, I might have sent it to her to prove I didn’t deserve that C- she gave me my Junior year.

I was off to email the letter of introduction I’d perfected to pitch my novel, Scavenger Girl - Season of Atchem, to the list of waiting reviewers. As all authors know, reviewers just keep hitting the refresh button waiting for the next great literary work to be zapped into their inboxes, right?

I sat down, copied my well-edited document into email after email, making sure to personalize each one with the reviewer’s name, addressing their individual interests, and whenever possible, adding a little antodocital humor based on their blog’s ‘about me’ section.

Yes, I was whitty. More importantly I was prepared.

I sat on the emotional parade float waving at all the fans sitting on the curb of the digital road that is my pre-launch campaign. For once, I was the Queen, and I felt the regency of my appointment.

Then I remembered who I really am, and although I may have been made royalty in the morning, I was stripped of my title by noon, right around the time preschool ended.

You see, I’ve got a four-year-old son who suddenly needed a grilled sandwich. And milk. Then a towel to clean up said milk. “Mom, can I watch a movie?” Fine, I’ll give you Paw Patrol, Doc McStuffins, heck I’ll put on Poltergeist if that’s what it takes to keep you occupied!

Wait...what? You need to wipe your butt? Ergh, just let me just send this one email…

*Click*

Wait. Oh, God. No! Did I just send that?

How do I get it back! (Here’s where I bang on the keyboard desperately trying to slow down my high-speed internet while my son walks like a penguin towards me at the kitchen table holding one end of the toilet paper in is tiny hand.)

Here are the only two questions that mattered in that moment: Did my little boy hear all those whispered curse words I mumbled when I realized I credited the blogger with someone else's blog. Will the creator of Blog A pay any attention to the fact I told them Blog B was the best blog I’ve ever visited? Naw, they won’t notice that I sent the wrong version of the letter, right?

(My face hits the keyboard like that frustrated piano player on Sesame Street.) Suddenly, I realize I’ve sent a second email to that same reviewer. Now I just look drunk. Or like I speak Icelandic.

Iceland sounds like a good place to move.

I should do that. Now.

“Mom?” My son offers me the end of his toilet paper, still connected to the roll 20-feet away in the bathroom.

Before I pack my bags, I should probably clean my son’s bum and pick up the streamers, aka toilet paper, left over from my imaginary parade.

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Jennifer Arntson is a hopeful Bestseller, professional friend maker, wife, mom, and sworn enemy of Caillou. When she’s not writing, she’s reading about writing, and if she ever gets one of her hands free, she uses it to grab a glass of wine.

Follow her on one of the gazillion social media platforms because the best friends are the ones that don’t require phone calls or birthday cards.

http://www.ScavengerGirl.com

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