I am in the midst of a massive head cold. Probably not the best time to fly. I have to keep my day job, so today I found myself flying to LA and back for a meeting. No, not a meeting with movie execs or publishers, just an ordinary everyday business meeting.
On the first flight I downed cough drops and orange juice, loading myself up enough to survive both an Amazing Race-style cab ride through East L.A. (we only just missed entering the freeway going the wrong direction, and only because I was screaming wildly from the back seat), and a two hour meeting with a potential new client. I faked my way through the meeting on Adrenaline alone.
It was the ride back that killed me. I thought my head was going to explode during the last twenty minutes of the flight, just like that movie from the 80s where the psychic's head blows up? I was pretty sure it was gonna happen. I was almost hoping for it.
But none of that was the worst part of my trip...
That honor goes to the moment when walked into the Airport bookstore and saw a hot new YA novel with almost the exact title of my WIP. My wonderful, amazing, completely original, blow-your-mind (not literally this time) high concept?
At least the story was not at all similar, which gave me some hope. My husband is thrilled now that I'm now forced to go back to my alternate title, which he always thought was better.
Still. I feel so violated.