Barely visible are the fading marks from cupping I had last weekend. This is a fancy thing you can pay for or do it yourself at home with glass jam jars and a Bic. Apparently sitting at a computer is hazardous to your spinal health. So is playing with fire. My neck hurts. I really want a comfy chair.
Only slightly less painful than having knots suctioned out of your back is writing a good book proposal. The only thing I loathe more than mornings are sales pitches. What a bizarre and oddly grotesque thing to turn your life story into a commercial so an agent will sell you to a publisher. I wish there were another way but such are the terms and conditions of the western world. Hey there sugar fingertips, show us your profits.
I might’ve mentioned once or twice that a man tried to buy me for his son. I said no, several times, possibly in more than one language since he didn’t seem to hear me. The difference between now and then is choice and dignity as I’m quite sure I get to keep my pants on throughout this entire transaction. Publishers are the ones afraid of losing their shirts. Art shouldn’t be so fraught with potential peril but alas, rent doesn’t grow on trees for most of us.
Dear book lords, I offer you this diamond in the rough, on a quilted box, will you publish me?
ps: I started this project one year and a day ago today, happy bookversary.