Now I haff a machine gun.
I’m headed back to the ancestral breeding pit to break bread amongst people who share my congenital birth defects, so this blog will be dark over the co-opted pagan festival season.
All things considered, it’s been a rather smashing 2010, pip-pip, huzzah, what ho, old chap. This time last year I was putting the finishing touches on my first ms, trying to get my head around writing a query letter. Twelve months later, I’m an agented writer at a fantastic shop, with two offers from major publishing houses on the table and potentially more to follow in the New Year. Funny how the worm turns. Sometimes I love that goddamn worm. I love him right in the pants.
I had a dream last night in which none of this was real. I was still just another grunt in the trenches, no agent, no offers, and for a moment it seemed so vivid I had to check my iPhone and re-read the emails from big Matty B and the kick-ass Ms Ribar letting me know an offer had been made. The thought of going back to where I was a year ago was truly terrifying. So if this actually is a dream, nobody wake me up, okay? I’d rather sleep with a big goofy smile on my face.
Happy holidays, peoples. To all the grunts still slogging in the trenches, remember Rule 13.
Heads up 2011. You are getting DESTROYED.
.eb ot tog s’ti yaw eht si sihT