That, and the guilt doesn’t nag me like it used to.

I’m not saying I’m no longer in love, just that the thrill is gone. Or maybe that’s the same as falling out of love?

New NEW hair. Same cut, even more red.

No, no. Don’t be upset.

Don’t cry.

Pathetic isn’t a good look, and groveling kind of makes me want to kick you.

Besides, I like still like you. I care. There are real feelings here: affection; camaraderie; history. That counts for…something.

All the same and in the interest of full disclosure, it used to really gnaw at me if I missed two or three days of blogging. Now it’s not unusual to realize “Holy shit. I haven’t posted anything in over a week,” and then shrug and let another five days pass.

Mea culpa.

And – this lazy and not terribly endearing confession aside – thanks for hanging around despite my unpredictability and, well, let’s call it like it is: complete and total lack of new content.

Maybe if something consistently exciting starts happening, I’ll have more to say?

It's weird, because I know someone who has this poster, and I've often wondered who these people were. Apparently they're Hells' Angels. Go figure.

Perhaps I should join the Hell’s Angels or run away with the circus? And there’s always the siren song of riding the rails like the hobos of yore…

As it stands, and as I think I have already told you, I’ve been running myself ragged at the business of (what some days feels like) total futility. As part of my threefold plan for world literary domination (The Three Cs – Conferences/Contests/Chance poured liberally over The Four Cs – Ceaseless, Constant, Continual Creating. Or would it be easier if I just called that the Seven Cs? Oooh! That’s kind of cutesy. Like The Seven Seas. And if you use it, I expect credit…and a piece of the pie, whatever that may be. A piece of pie is fine too. I prefer pumpkin.) So anyway, in an effort to get on the literary radar of those with the power to publish my books, I’ve been trying my hand at a different genre (short stories) and entering them into contests.

I’ve also been entertaining the idea of starting yet another novel in the next few weeks. This new one is going to be YA – look out Stephanie Meyer – and the plot is actually based on a dream I had about my dad while in Paris last year. Paris has nothing to do with it (or maybe it will? I haven’t really worked out the details yet), just that I happened to be there when I dreamed it, and I apparently mentioned that minutiae in order to confuse the matter.

I have a tendency to do that.

Say too much and point out finite and unnecessary details and lose people along the way.

But I digress…

Here it is. In all its edited glory.

Seeing as my life pretty much revolves around writing and trying to get this pipe dream to convert into reality , I am happy to report that Zion (the book written in Mexico) came back today fully edited!!! Yay! Five minutes of elation immediately crashing into the brick wall of  the reality of my new hobby.  Although I’d much prefer playing the guitar or cooking or even macrame,  in all actuality I’ve been spending extreme amounts of time researching and trying to find agents to pitch my book to.

A dozen agents. That’s all I want.

A dozen, viable agents open to unsolicited manuscripts from unpublished writers. And then making sure they’re not scam artists or about to go out of business. And then there’s confirming that they’re alive. Seriously. In my copious research, I ran across an allegation that Jonathan Franzen or Dave Eggers or one of those guys sent two query letters to agents that were dead.

And rarely are the deceased able to hustle and get the kind of deals one would want…

This is one of those horrifying bridges that you use only if the other option is being shot in the head.

So once we deal with those things – legit, breathing, and open to nobodies – then we come to the final footbridge. And it’s not just a bridge: it’s one of those scary rope bridges over an abyss that wobbles back and forth and could possibly flip all the way over if you move too quickly or someone on the other side decides to f*ck with you. Because, as it turns out, if getting an agent to sign you ain’t hard enough, here’s the real rub: Getting an agent is not all there is to it.

In fact, rumor has it many people become agents because they can’t make it as editors.

Ouch.

Kind of like “Those who can’t, teach” except “Those who can’t edit, agent.”

I’ve found more than one harrowing tale from now-successful writers who went through one or two or even SIX agents before finding someone they liked and who was able to get them a decent deal. ***shoot me now***

Ooh. Where is this? Africa? Mucho gusto.

In other other news, it’s finally summer! It’s now literally summer (June 24), but it also – thank freaking god – finally feels like summer. For a while there, it was a total un-summer here in Washington. It wasn’t just unsummery, it was goddamned cold and winterish and depressing.

So now that it is summery, I suppose it doesn’t really change anything either way as most of my time is spent with my ass glued to the couch where I work and mostly it just ensures that my workouts are extra sweaty, but there’s still some mystical thing where I get super happy at the sight of an early sunrise and warm air.

You know what’s the best?
A day that’s so warm that when you go out at night, you don’t even need a sweater.

I freaking love that.

He looks harmless enough...

So, despite my general largesse and occasional sense of futility, life is – as always – pretty good, and I’ve got no real complaints.  And, similarly, no real blog content.

But I’ll see what I can do. Like maybe start penpal-ing with someone in prison or something for your reading enjoyment. It might provide some interesting content, right? And I could specify death row only. They’re not getting out on parole any time soon…or ever.

So what’s the worst that could happen?