I would rather have a nod from an American, than a snuff-box from an emperor. ~Lord Byron
If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning.
Alohalani
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Let's see, here... I'm surviving my new job with something vaguely resembling grace and dignity. And maybe a little bit of running around like a chicken with my head cut off.
I got my novel printed out a couple of weeks ago--just two copies--so that I can revise it, and now I have a comb-bound two hundred twenty five page rough draft in my hands. I'm revising the order of a lot of things in it. The lady at Kinkos--the one who did the comb binding on the thing-- said that she wanted to keep reading. So, of course I'm thrilled. Visions of literary agents are dancing in my head. I suppose that I could submit the thing myself, but I really would like to have somebody who knows what they are doing on my side, especially after I wound up reading a book contract or two (on the internet. If it had been anything with my name on it, I'm sure that I would have just signed on the dotted line.) So, two hundred pages and a red pen or two...
And my cousin sent me a package for Christmas. By UPS. Something that I have to sign for. So, I'm curious. Whatever it is, I've never had to sign for anything before. So, as soon as I'm done, here, I'm going to get my lunch, go home, and wait for it. Something tells me it's not another scarf.

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