Last night, The Mighty Tice sent me a dream email where he confessed that he was secretly a successful fantasy author. He’d collaged the titles of his books — maybe four or five — in a graphic, the titles of his books in gilded banners, and sent me the graphic, explaining that he had a new book and that he just had no idea where to send it. I didn’t doubt any of this. But what I said was, “How the hell should I know? Haven’t you kept up with industry news? It’s all going to hell out there!” Being of course far grumpier and annoyed with The Mighty Tice than I would ever want to be in waking life over anything.

And then I woke up to a kitten lying on my stomach. I think it’s what’s ON your tummy and not IN it that gives one odd dreams.

I’m sure this is all related to my general angst about publishing. I’ve learned in my many years that the world is unjust, unfair and a regular face spitter. Regardless of the economy, nothing will ever change.

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