Shawn and I went swing dancing on Friday night and on the second song out there I got a blister. I felt it bubble out in my little saddle shoe. I finished out the song and dug through my dance bag for a bandaid. No luck.
So my dad gave me an awesome compliment yesterday. (I bet he didn't know it was going to show up here, but hey, that's the danger of having a kid for a writer. I keep threatening that I'm going to write a book about the family one day. So far they've escaped okay.)
So I've been exploring routes to get myself published and found that the venue that I really want doesn't exist. If you want to publish stuff for children, there are outlets for you. If you want to publish Tolkien-style fantasy, King-style horror, or LeGuin-style science fiction, there are outlets for you. If you write poetry or my particular brand of fantasy (no wizards in pointy hats), well. . .
Last year my car was broken into. I lost my backpack (ouch), my iPod (bastards), my writing composition book (rotten, dirty, little thieves), and a small leather book into which I had journaled my life for four years (if I ever catch you stupid, greedy, little @#$#s, you will regret the day you ever saw my car).
The good news is I'm not bitter.
You probably know this story already. I've been whining about it for a year to all my friends/family/pets/random people who will listen. And I suppose that you know me in some sense or you probably wouldn't be here reading this.