Alright, we're down to the final hours here. Well maybe not hours, but in the next 4 days, at least. To whoever is the worthy bastard who get's the green light - and I hope it is Marcey or NOOC - know that I admire your pluck and skills. (And yes, that is "pluck," not luck. At this point it isn't luck...you are all earning your rights to pub.)

Growl. I feel like crouching on an i-beam somewhere and smoking a cigarette.

Steve Katz once told me, "Until you're published in New York, you're not published," but he just likes to antagonize people. Ask him, he'll tell you the same.

So what next? Editing Enging Alley to a point where I would be comfortable asking money for it, working on the short story collection, and working on the wedding faerie tale.

But what do I really want to do? Write the next F/W novel. I think I've hungered for it ever since the baby-sitter came over and ran us through "Caves of Chaos." Never believe the people that try to tell you dreams fade. Dream-stuff doesn't linger so much as it transforms. As a self-afflicted victim of this I am not living toward my dreams; I have become an extension of them, my heart melting out into gooey cobwebs that coat my hands and everything they touch.

If not this time, then next time. If not next time, then sometime. I'm going to have this, so clear a place on your bookshelf. :)

Today's Soundtrack:In my current mood, it has to be the Sisters. From
"Never Land (a fragment)":

I had a face on the mirror
I had a hand on the gun
I had a place in the sun
and a ticket to Syria
I had everything within my reach
had money and stuff
each and every call
too much but never enough
tear it up and watch it fall


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