Hunting Season! Dramatic Me.

It is the cold, I say, the cold that keeps me from a journey back to the land of my childhood. Though the weather here in Nowhere Land, California (where Hi-Speed Internet eludes us) is weird enough, I can't quite remember the last time our Lake actually froze over, cracked into large chunks and then blown onto the main highway.

Today is muggy, however, with a few clouds hanging over our forgotten community of Balicia Ranch, and I sit in my loft pondering about agents (Literary and AFTRA/SAG) and how the hunt has begun.

A day in the life of a writer? Oh bother. Mom and Dad still say, "When are you getting a real job?"

Cry. Sigh. And more of the same. I shall write my daily 500 word quota. A smile appears after the second or third sigh. I am alone in this mansion. A little scary at times, but mostly peaceful. The dogs made their escape in the early hours of the morning. They dug a tunnel to the neighbor's property. O, why me? Half an hour later I managed to entice them back to this side of the fence with, of all things, a couple of good ole' American hot dogs.

They are wrong, you know. Man's best friend is her computer. Or something to that effect. Why, on my computer, I have hunted for that all elusive literary agent since most publishing firms won't take unsolicited, unagented, manuscripts anymore. So an agent we must have. Hit the enter key and off goes my query to New York. Another to the other side of New York and O, look a reply from the editor of Pitwit Magazine.

No, I can't look at it. I just can't. Let's wait seven days and see what they said. It's only a $25 deal if they publish my short story. Nonetheless, I also have a little contract with The Upper Room. Glorious, indeed. Keep this up and I'll have a steady paycheck coming in. I must write, writer and write.

All is well. Yes, all is well with my soul.