...heard from my editor at Barnes & Noble, saying it's time to send the final manuscript [less the index and the acknowledgments].
...panicked! Because I am never ready to let a manuscript out of my hands, and never willing to agree that it is actually done.
...realized that I had to give up the manuscript anyway, even if I think it still needs another ninety-nine drafts, and panicked some more.
...translated what I thought was the final manuscript into the right file format for my editor, and sent it off into cyberspace.
...discovered that what I had actually sent wasn't the final manuscript at all, but some unidentifiable earlier draft.
...panicked again, more dramatically.
...sent off a desperate e-mail asking my editor to please ignore what I'd just sent her, because it wasn't what it was supposed to be, and saying that the right item would follow immediately, God willing.
...translated what I think was the final manuscript [Please, Providence!] into the right format for my editor, and sent it off into cyberspace.
...sent an e-mail trying to explain how I could do something so unspeakably stupid.
...rejoiced over an e-mail from my editor saying not to worry, she has the right file now and that's what matters.
If I were younger, I would be banging my head on my desk. Because I'm not, I don't think I'll risk it. I might rearrange my neurons so drastically that I wouldn't ever be able to get them back in order again.
Cottonpick. Sheesh, even.