This weekend I am engaging in what I devoutly wish to be the final round of edits on Gingerbread Wolves. If all goes well I should be clicking on that big shiny red publish button by tomorrow afternoon.
I am working from the outstanding notes given to me by The Proulx, a hyperintelligent extra-dimensional life form with the power to appear to be a Canadian to mortal eyes. I read her latest work, the (soon?) to be published Chasing Nonconformity and wrote back that I thought it was pure distilled awesome sauce and she shouldn’t change a word, except maybe for the first chapter.
She read Gingerbread Wolves and sent me back voluminous notes and the whole thing edited, with a warning that under Galactic Law my use of commas is punishable by five years on the Penal Moon of Verminthrax VII.
Way to make me feel like a beta reader slacker, kid.
Tonight, however, I am taking off to go to the Muni to get my musical theater fix. Tonight it’s My Fair Lady, which as a devout Chestertonian I can only enjoy if I point out that George Barnard Shaw was wrong about absolutely everything, even if he could pen a ripping yarn from time to time.
Time to get FAAABulous!
“And where’s that soggy plain?”
(all together now)