My youngest son is telling me about a book he just finished. It had at least 14 chapters and was 90 pages and was about people who vacationed in an elevator.
"Want to know what my favorite page was?" he asked.
"It was page 72."
" What happened on page 72?"
"I don't remember."
That, and seeing the Spiderwick movie at the IMAX after a dinner out with the same boy, was the highlights of the last two weeks. Other than that, it seems that no writing is getting done, I am waiting to hear on some work and getting that edge of despair thing, other news is two poems accepted and one turned down. So, of course, one fixates over the one turned down. Are there any writers out there who are not mental? I mean, really.