I don’t know. This could be scary, people. I don’t mean in the sense we’ve reached the End of Times, that I just saw a zombie drive past as I halted at the four-way stop, or that I cooked. Nothing that horrific. But it’s possible that a few days of earnest cleaning and organizing might be turning into a habit.
Will you still like me if I’m not quite as undignified, or as…human?
Please think carefully, because this is not a cruel practical joke designed to make you dig deep, expose your innermost feelings to the Internet, then point and laugh.
For instance, look what I ordered last night for the upcoming Romance Writers of America conference:
That’s right. Those are exactly what they look like: business cards.
I apologize for the quality of the screen capture shot, but you will note I managed to:
- keep the citrus theme going (I do love my orange.)
- work in my wee icon (which will evoke Ascorbic Acid-Associated Happiness in the recipient.)
- include my most relevant means of access (Tartitude, Writer Unboxed, my e-mail and Twitter account.)
- gloss only the front. (This is a hard-won lesson from last year. A few — okay, maybe twenty — people managed to see beyond my social ineptitude and ask questions. When they went to write the answers down — perhaps to blog, or tweet, or simply quote my awesomeness to their editors — they couldn’t. I was forced to watch the light in their eyes die, and their shoulders slump as their pens scrabbled uselessly for purchase. I remained completely anonymous. In other words, I effed up.)
- maintain both my Jan O’Hara and Tartitude identities while creating something unique.
I could almost be exultant, except for one thing: I ordered so early that I’ll have no cause to be anxious as my trip approaches and the cards haven’t showed. I will not have to curse my monitor and all imaging programs ever designed. Me? Without pre-trip panic? The idea is frankly surreal.
Now take the new, improved Tart and her efficiency as pertaining to business cards, apply it to paperwork in the office, research for writing, preparation of the kids’ lunches…
See what I mean? It’s freakishly unlike me.
So what do you think? Will I flame out in a few days, and all this worrying about my lack of worrying be for naught? Are you counting minutes until I relapse? Do you like my business cards or are they too precious? (Ordered through OvernightPrints.com.)