Readers:

Insent.

Gar, can you send them a copy of the manuscript in email?

They've had a copy for two years. They don't have to time to read it. I now know the particulars (which I did not when I last posted), and they have an ongoing family tragedy, and simply will never have time to read it. I'm just going to have to do without their blurb. I knew even asking for a blurb for a book they will never rad would be wrong, but I was so fucking tempted to ask, because a blurb from them would pretty much ensure publication.

I can't speak for anyone else, but sometimes I really feel the impulse do something I know is wrong. Rather than wrestle with alone, I find it helps to say it out loud to friends. Sometimes the result of that is a verbal kick in the ass when that is exactly what I need.

I still think I will get this published. And if not, well there are a whole lot worse things in life than never being published. I now know why a particular person is not reading my book - it is because he is going through one of those things; all I can do is wish for the best possible outcome for that particular family, knowing the best possible outcome is still pretty awful.

Oh that's heartwrenching.

I think everyone feels the impulse to do things we know are wrong. I'm not sure we'd be human if we didn't.

Yeah, that's tough.

But I really do believe in your book, Typo, and I think there's a serious market out there for it, especially these days. Keep at it. You already know that getting published is a long road, but hang in there.

The opening the box challenge is now closed.

This week's challenge is threads.

Thanks Deena and Liese. Puts things in perspective though. I think the second book is finished (as opposed to the very rough draft I've shared).

I'm trying to come up with a title and description:

"Cooling a Fevered Planet - Winning the Fight against Climate Chaos"

Money, policy, politics and stopping global warming.

MM - insent.

Sox - Rec'd and thanks. Much to mull.

Paycheck to Paycheck

The machines droned away. Land borne behemoths singing a doleful song that she could feel in her bones through the concrete floor. Gobbling up sliver, spinning out mile after mile of yarn, they loomed like gargantuan arachnids made of metal. Two machines per person, forty spindles per side, one hundred sixty spindles total, they spun. Caught in their web, she patrolled them all night, never letting the threads fall until the spindles were full. One quarter-mile circuit every fifteen minutes, eight miles a night. Had it been straw into gold, at least she might have found freedom at the end.