Forget the Lenten Experiment--my major penitential act has been editing a manuscript that is taking much longer than I had anticipated. I thought I'd finish it last week, but now I'm wondering if I can get it done before next Sunday. The more I edit, the grumpier I get (cf. yesterday's post). Mr Neff has been marvelously patient. Right now, he's loading the dishwasher.
(Digression: for lunch we had a salad made of finely grated cabbage dressed in olive oil, lime juice, and a little salt and sugar; each pile topped with half a baked beet, sliced, and half a sliced orange; garnished with a dollop of thick Arab yogurt and a sprinkling of pecan bits. We also each had half a chicken breast, browned and then braised with half a cabbage, coarsely chopped, and some chopped onion and garlic, a splash of orange juice, and a shake of ground ginger. For supper we had leftover black bean stew, just like last night's, with a jalapeno corn muffin given to us by a neighbor we ran into while walking our dogs this afternoon. We also had Monastrell wine left over from my lunch with Ginger on Friday.)
Well, I was thinking about why the editing was putting me in such a foul mood. Do I really hate editing? Sometimes. Am I really miserable as I slog through this manuscript? No. Why, then, am I so grumpy? I think it's the dailyness of it--the "same damn thing over and over" aspect of editing a long manuscript.
I've never been good with dailyness. I wrote two books of daily devotions for Loyola Press just to see if I could discipline myself to do it--365 reflections times two, dailyness on steroids. I thought if I passed that hurdle, my dailyness-avoidance would be solved.