The Waiting

Tom Petty’s right. The waiting is the hardest part.

About two weeks ago, I sent the complete manuscript of my chick lit, The Crash Test Dummy of Love, to New York. Thirty-day exclusive. Within thirty days, I’ll know something.

In thirty days, I will, most likely, no longer have cuticles.



I do not wait well.

I love this book. I love it because it’s chick lit for people who don’t live in New York, who don’t understand why otherwise-intelligent people will pay $1000 per month rent for an apartment roughly the size of my walk-in closet. City that never sleeps and all, I know. But still. A thousand bucks is not too much less than what I pay for a 4/2 in the ‘burbs with mature trees and excellent schools and no crime.

Yes, it’s the burbs. I’m sure that damages my cool chick cred somehow, but I don’t really care. I can sleep at night, and the weather’s fabulous, when we don’t have a hurricane (or two, or three) bearing down on us.

What was I saying? Oh, yes. Chick lit. Book. My book. Love my book. Hope Dream Agent loves it, too.

All together now…Rep the book! Get a huge advance! Rep the book! Get a huge advance!