... And I just realized you won't be blogging on Tuesday, March 22, 2011. NOW WHO IS GOING TO PIMP OUT MY DEBUT ON RELEASE DAY!? And by pimp out I mean threaten the internet to buy it.

I will so miss these blogs. On Tuesday mornings, when I wake up at the crack of noon, before I even get out of bed I pull this blog up on my iphone to see what hilarity you have written. But I can only blame myself; we all know the real reason you're leaving is because my emails take up all your time. Which reminds me, I need flight booking advice and your opinion on these new sweaters I just bought. Check your inbox.

Twitter pic!

While the swollen eye one does say, "serious lit agent seeking new talents for substantial contracts" I'm going to have to vote for the first one, with the black hat.

Gasp. I cannot believe you just shared your K9 video after threatening my life if I ever acknowledged its existence. That said, I couldn't agree more. I have had a small handful of aspiring authors (or people just making polite party chatter) ask me what my publishing story is. I like to tell the tale of the 140+ rejection letters, and this one particular agent who said, "Not this time, but hit me with your next project" and how that next project did get me that agent, but not a publisher. And now the NEXT manuscript got me an "almost" from a publisher. And how the NEXT manuscript opened up the magical oak door that leads to the publishing wonderland, and how that manuscript began as a seedling a year before it would be written. I can't speak for other writers, but my own attitude has been that if what I'm doing isn't getting the desired results, the problem isn't that the people at the top of the ladder just don't get my brilliance, it's that I need to look into ways to improve and/or change my approach. Also, how soon can you get me on Oprah's final season? I'll be waiting for your call.

Last time I began a sentence with "My mother said..." you slapped the glass out of my hand and bellowed "I'M your mother now!" and told me to finish your book.

Any advice my mother may or may not have given me is irrelevant, because there is only one boss of me, and that is you. Therefore, this was a trick question.

Strangely, I still regret nothing. For the record, I am pretty sure at max, your tweets are a 1.5. That death stare you gave me last month during that S&S meeting was a 9 on my barometer.

I tweeted it, not that you'd know because you aren't on Twitter, but you will be by the end of this month or my name is Muddle VonMudderpuppy.

Opposite day was awesome. I didn't worry about anything, or email you, or stumble through the rooms of my apartment, holding my cat like a ragdoll not bothering to wipe the snot from its Ginger fur while weeping into the crown of its furry head. Then my mother came over and we talked about our feelings, which, it turns out, are so alike that we finished our conversation over Ben and Jerry's ice cream in the park. Then I went to bed promptly at 9 PM and had no trouble sleeping, because the herd of insomniac pachyderm in the upstairs apartment had also retired to their sleeping chambers. I was happy to wake up the next morning, though, in a lake of my own drool and tears, and dodge the puddle of cat puke on my way to find my laptop and write you a neurotic email about my fears of failure as an author and a human being. The email ends, as always, with my pleading for you to never dump me as a client, and my promising to do something more respectable with my wardrobe the next time I'm doing anything businessy with my publisher. Turns out I actually like my life this way. I get more writing done.

When you read the Super Serious Death Scene in book 3 I just want you to remember that this song was blasting through my head.

Fat Beagle, check it and seeeee, tips the scales at a hundred and three... Great. Thanks for that. I'm humming it as I write, now.

So... that gritty new crime series about a forensic analyst who moonlights as a shark whisperer would only have an audience of one? Is that what you're telling me?

Because you haven't yet killed me or blocked my email address, I think you are always super nice.

The world is not ready for the s*it you say to us.

I'm kinda digging the PolishTowerofPisa now that you said it. I'd love to see you on twitter, but I can see why it's not a first priority on your end. If you want to know what I'm up to, you can consult the phone taps and the bugs you planted in my rafters.