And Then It Gets Cold

The geese are flying south. Frost crunches underfoot. The trees glow red and orange. The stupid NHL is stupid. The old Expos make the playoffs and are eliminated in rather spectacular fashion (something I had asked for last week – because I am a small and petty man – and something I might have found easily and linked to here had Facebook been designed by, you know, actual designers).

The Guardian asked a bunch of well known writers to write a story in 140 characters or less. The results are pedestrian at best. It’s a bit surprising because they asked some very good writers. Only Ian Rankin comes close to delivering something. I think he might be the only one who really tried. It doesn’t make me feel better about the ridiculous thing I do on Twitter, but it does, too. I already said I was small and petty. Read closely.

I have an offer for my novel. I’m not going to jinx it here by talking about it until it’s signed. I haven’t even accepted the offer yet. But I’m thinking about it. I was weeks away from going the self-publishing route (I’d even given my agent a deadline). And after going after the big fish, a small publishing house, here in Canada, came through with an offer. By this time next week, I might have something concrete to announce. Perhaps. Or not. That’s how publishing goes. If we move forward, the book wouldn’t get published until spring 2014, in both print and digital. But in many ways, it’s done, and I can finally move on and work on some other projects. Get moving on my creative output again. Scratching the itch that always needs scratching. Because it never stops. Ever.


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