Caffeine: morning cup
Evil Calories: those waxy frosted animal cookies with the little sprinkles
Reality TV: Top Chef reruns
Well, it's happened. My computer has caught the plague, and is dying a slow, painful and alarmingly loud death. I'll just be tapping away on it and all of a sudden the hard drive sounds like the engine of my old Plymouth Arrow (which, by the way, was my very first car when I was a teenager. It was a hunk, wouldn't go over 35 mph and I had to drive fifteen minutes out of the way to and from school because it couldn't make it over the big hill on Las Positas, and then some asshat broke into it just to get his hands on a Night Ranger tape). Anyway, my only hope now is that Apple lists some non-cringeworthy priced refurbished MacBooks, or else I'm stuck trying to write on the demonic shitbox of a desktop upstairs. It eats files for breakfast and has a passion for kernel panics. That is not good for my calm.
On another note, just peek, PEEK, at my word count meter for After Charlie (don't stare, you'll make it uncomfortable). I'll say no more lest I throw a monkey wrench in my groove. Groove being the key word, in that, yes, oh, yes, it came back and now we're groovin'.
And lastly, I realized something yesterday. As I was writing my first book, I was sure, and could feel, in every nook and cranny of my bones, that it would be published. Which is probably why my life sucked rocks for a little while when I couldn't find an agent and had to bury it my "poo smells" folder. This book, I feel the opposite. Though of course I have the occasional delusion of grandeur, I'm fully aware of the fact that it probably won't be published, nor will it land me an agent. I can't figure out if this is good or bad. I'm still writing it with the same passion and fervor and when it comes time to query I'll give it my all. But, I don't know, that whole process just seems like an afterthought to me right now. Call me crazy.