Yuck, yuck, yuck I am sick. Ever since I adopted the doggie I've had some level of sinus trouble and I never have sinus trouble. Today's problem is the same as yesterday's and the day before: sinus infection, round 2. The first one was in June and it lasted the whole month.
If anyone out there knows how to get my memoir published, let me know. It's damn good if I say so myself. I wrote my author bio and synopsis today. The author bio is more humorous than anything, but the synopsis I really had no clue about, so it's two and a half pages when it's supposed to only be one: according to the Hill Street Press website. I'm going to hope it's acceptable. Perhaps I should bake cookies and bring them when I drop all my stuff off at their office. Perhaps I should walk in on my knees with my notebook and the cookies. I'm trying hard not to be vested in this, to let go of the outcome, but I don't think I'd be the next great star of literature if I did that. Doesn't it have to cause angst to move you forward in some way? The rest of my life sure as hell has. And this is why I was able to write this stunningly complelling memoir. It's a cross between James Frey and Augusten Burroughs. I think. Or maybe I just assume that because they are the only memoirists I've read lately. Not that I'm as good as they are. I think they are both amazing writers. They're also freakin rich, which is why I need to find a publisher for the book. See how everything goes back to the book?
I'm gonna go choke on a cough drop now. Peace.