There comes a time, my friends, when I've got to ask myself why I do what I do. Why I write. Why I try. Why I spend so much time with my head in books getting all choked up in marble dust and bronze shavings from madmen and thieves. Isn't there a better way to spend my time? Why can't I be out there fighting terrorists or snorting illegal substances like normal people?
After all, nobody asked me to write this book. Nobody really cares if I ever finish it. And even if I do, no one will ever read it. So- why bother? Why not just watch movies and read books other people write and sail off to the 93 islands of Rhode Island? No one will know about or remember that, either, but at least I won't set myself up for this grinding feeling in my belly when I get rejected from someone who knows about this stuff more than I do. Where, I ask, is that whiskey bottle?
You guessed it. The latest agent blew me off... It's uncanny how similar all of their rejection letters sound. Obviously they all get them from the same printer...
Just as I was getting ready to touch the headless Kings of Judah...
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