I am an impatient person. (Said the author who took a year and a half to write the book that was promised six months ago.) My editor will tell you this. She can feel it in the air like an electrical current as I tap my toes, drum my fingers, clean the house (huh?), load a new web browser onto my computer, troll facebook like it's my lifeline to sanity (the opposite is undeniably true), and pretend I'm not waiting for her red-marked pages with every fiber of my being. Yes, it's true. I've become addicted to corrections. Not correctness. Definitely not that. Corrections . Those little squiggles, marks that mean x, y, and z that I'm supposed to know because I'm an author, and all the other red-pen decorations that are like a tonic to my pre-publication nerves, salvation from slop, and proof that someone has my back. She will tell you my impatience is ridiculous and a product of my own, over-ambitious schedule for publication. She's right, of course, b