Jack wakes up this morning in a cold sweat. He gets out of bed and sets the percolator to brewing, but when the coffee is ready, he finds he can't drink it. Today the caffeine only jangles his nerves more, and Jack paces the floor with the cup in his hands if only for the calming feeling of warmth. His stomach today isn't right; his shoulders are tight. Somehow Jack can't shake the awful feeling: today he will die.
Hey, Barbara, you've inspired fan fiction. Ha!
So I thought I found the perfect little magazine for my story about the husband who gives birth to the little man, and I sent it off to them all hopeful. They specialize in surrealism/magic realism, and I believe they like the twisted. Perfect match, right? Bah! I got a nice little personal rejection yesterday that said that they enjoyed the story and that it was well written blah-blah, but in the end they found it was just too similar to the Charles Bukowski story featuring a miniature man and a woman's no-no-naughty-place. Now I'm all for stealing fantastic ideas when I know I'm doing it (epileptic prophets and a certain spin-a-lator come to mind here...), but it comes as a blow to find that I've unknowingly stolen. This is why I should read more. Humph!
Keep writing you two crazy nanoers! Jennifer, how's the progress on the ahead-by-Sunday plan?
Jenny
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