We have to send out Christmas cards soon, as in, get them posted today.
Who has time to ponder the hook for a query when there's little notes to be scribbled to the aunts and cousins? We're grand, hope you're grand, Happy Christmas, see you soon. Repeat as needed, until the stack of blank cards are inked, stuffed into envelopes, labeled and stamped.
It's all such an enormous expenditure of valuable time.
I haven't even sent out a single short story submission this month, which is half-over already. Not that it's that critical at this point, so close to the holidays. Who knows if the journal will even be in existence by the first of January next? Why rush, except that I've thought of a way to re-write an older story, make the characters Mexican immigrants instead of white folks, and I'd love to try it out with some college intern who thinks that majoring in American literature or creative writing is a good plan for the future.
So I'll waste my creative writing skills on witty bon mots to the relations far and near, while my manuscript collects dust for another day. After all this time trying to get an agent's attention, what's another twenty-four hours?