Having a story published yesterday reminded me how much i like having my stories published (duh). my production had dwindled away to zero as I've been focusing on the novel and copyediting, so aside from a few pieces out there waiting to be accepted or rejected, I have nothing else in the pipeline.
That's okay. Novel novel novel.
Meanwhile, a publishing house gave Amanda Palmer a contract to write a book based on her deranged TED talk and the mind-boggling poem she wrote to make the Boston Marathon bombings about herself. On her blog she admits she has no idea what to write about. And someone gave her money. I don't even. I'm just going to think about other things now.
Writing: 825 words, oh yeah. Alcohol! Reporters! VIOLENCE! I could have sat there and written all day. that was a stone cold groove, right there.