Shit Fuck Piss Damn

Larry from "Three's Company"! Dog diarrhea! John Boy Walton's Big Chief writing tablet! Runners in the pink fishnets. Broken nails. Lice. Genital warts. Austin traffic. Albuquerque traffic. Chewing gum that has lost its flavor. Corsicana, Texas.

...so now I'm actually sending out query letters to literary agents for a novel I wrote four years ago but have recently radically revised and I'm learning that a novel should be 70K. Okay. Fuck me. My word count is currently 52K plus. Don't have the exact word count memorized. A small press editor expressed interest in Nova's Gone Potty but it has to be a novella. I cannot make Nova's Gone Potty a novella. That would rip my heart out. My heart has been ripped out countless times before during hurricane evacuations and in food stamps waiting rooms. I will not have my heart ripped out over Nova's Gone Potty. It must be a novel. It is a novel. But 70K? That's a lot of padding. I've told what needs to be told. I'm now revising Mordiscado and brainstorming Strong Blood. How much more time do I need to devote to a novel I wrote in three weeks in 2005??? Do I love my novel too much to try to sell it??? Probing questions. Anal probing questions. My fingers are frantically flying over a Navarro Community College library keyboard as I have no internet at home. And you can't insert old school floppy disks in this computer! What's up with THAT shit? This world has trampled my fingers and toes one time too many. There's a potato chip factory down the road. Guess I'll apply there.

Leftover Splooge,

Misti