Yeah, you know my pet peeve is going to be something daft. You can hear it coming down the pipes, can't you. The problem is, I struggle to rate pet peevery. The things that make me rage are too big to be considered a pet peeve - like people being arseholes for no apparent reason - and the stuff that irritates me is too small and daft, like:
Flies in summer
Accidental burning of food
Sudden holes in clothing that came out of fookin' nowhere
A distinct lack of naked pictures of the dudes I fancy
But then, maybe pet peeves are more about the level of irritation you feel over them, rather than how big or small they are. So I thought about my middle ground, my medium, low level hum of botheration, and came up with this:
Films that release in America, then take one hundred years to come out over here.
By God that's irritating! Far more irritating than flies in summer, but not as rage-inducing as random arseholes. And by that I do not, of course, mean sudden bumholes appearing in front of your face, to do some kind of bumhole dance. You may have thought I meant that, being an erotic romance writer, but I did not.
I just said it because it sounded like I meant that, and then I did a big silly laugh.
But I digress. Where was I? Oh yeah. Stupid film companies that release their stupid films stupidly late everywhere else. So that by the time it crawls its way over here, no-one's talking about it anymore, I've stopped caring and don't want to see it thirty times, and on top of all this, I'm cross in the perfect amount of pet peeved way.
And then I realise that this is primarily a blog where people talk about writing, so I've attempted to apply this impeccable, wholly scientific logic to writing:
Publishers treating their authors like dirt? So much rage it makes me black out, briefly.
Getting stuck at an awkward bit in a story, and not knowing where to take it next? Too small. Passes by quick, usually.
But the relentlessly empty inbox, that taunts me day and night? Ah...just right.