It’s five minutes to twelve. The dog is barking his head off because one of my neighbors suffers from premature celebration. I’m drinking sparkling cider and eating my cheese log, but I don’t much care for the crackers.
The past few years, I’ve been positive this was the one. Things would happen, stuff would shake loose, and this was the year I’d get a publishing contract.
Logic says I must be close. I’m submitting, I’m working daily, I’m editing…I must be close.
But I just can’t get excited about it this year. So I won’t. I’ll just hope this year is a little better than last, which was for the most part a pretty good one, and get back to work.
Let’s hope we all have a better year this year.