Some of us follow directions. Some of us don't.
Usually, I try to be a follower. Before a recent trip to visit my daughter, I conscientiously printed out directions; I'd never driven there by myself and knew very little about the city. Following the directions, or so I thought, I ended up pouting in a parking lot nowhere near her home. An additional hour and a half dragged by before we hugged hello. Goodness.
My friend and I roamed Dollywood for hours with our kids in tow, trying to figure a way out. Was it really our fault that the map was useless?
Then there was the time I followed directions when putting together an inexpensive stereo cabinet. I slapped the thing together, screwing in the appropriate screws. I realized, too late, that the raw edge of the pressed board faced frontward. Gosh!
What do you suppose happens when I don't follow directions?
If you read an earlier entry, you know about the dreaded treadmill incident. I still have the bruises and skinned knees to prove it. My bathroom faucets bear evidence of products wrongly used. Those are visible scars--no telling the damage to my psyche. I've had to replace things, make do, and apologize.
So my advice today is to follow directions--whether they come from an agent, a publisher, or the back of a household cleanser.
And I promise you this: I will not operate heavy machinery under any circumstances.