There’s a stuffed dog in Florida, and a good agent just jumped ship.

Quick warning to anyone who currently lives in Florida or the surrounding states: Puppy J. Murray is currently in Florida. Which is a good thing for me, and everyone else not in Florida, as we will have over a week of freedom from his freewheeling shenanigans, but Floridians had better run. What is Puppy J doing there, you ask? The last I heard he was going to acquire some beachfront property. Probably a chateau of some sort. Pictures will follow upon his return.

In other news, because this should be writing related, I just heard that Michelle Andelman, who was a faboo agent with Andrea Brown, has just left agenting to be a children’s book scout. Good for her, why yes it is. But for us poor schmo’s still toiling in the soil, looking to love YA agents, this is a sad day. That said, I’m sure she’ll do good things for children’s books.

However, this does chap my personal fanny (as opposed to my indifferent, public fanny) because Michelle had a full manuscript for my YA project, and now she obviously won’t be repping me. Not to fear though, as the road to publication is often long and difficult, or so I live. I can’t say, or so I hear, because most of the writers I know personally haven’t had such a tough time of it. They sold novels on proposals only, and then got paid their advances to write them. They found agents instantly and never looked back. They say that the hardest part isn’t "becoming" a writer, but staying one, and if that’s true, then I am sure to be comatose within the year. I’ll never say that, you know, about the "becoming" not being hard. It took over ten years for my first literary story to be published. It’s taken longer for my first novel to get picked up. And those interim years weren’t enlightening ones, years spent growing and dancing around in a circle with other "becoming" writers wearing a laurel wreath on my melon. Sure, I grew. Sure, I worked. Sure, writing is always fun. But the revision, and the rejection, and the submitting until blue comes to the surface of facial skin, isn’t always fun, or at least the "fun" wears thin after ten years. In fact, it’s mostly writhing around on the ground, speaking in tongues.

I don’t imagine that this will ever go away either. I’m still pushing other projects. There are always other things to do. There is always more. So the writhing continues. I ruin a lot of clothes that way. Occupational hazard, I guess.

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