I have stayed up past three in the morning because I couldn't get any other productive time at my computer, guaranteeing that the next day I would bear a strong resemblance to every dragon-breathed zombie in B-movie history, only with better hair. I took up blogging so I could relieve some of my need to write during the day (although my creative writing is of the fictitious sort, and my blog is anything but)(fiction, I mean)(but you knew that) without completely ignoring the Evil Genius, laundry, dishes, and other little details that keep the insects from overwhelming us and kicking us out onto the street.
So I have neglected friends, socializing, and clean linens (something had to give, and if the sheets don't LOOK dirty, are they??)(Again, not really - I can't stand having dirty sheets), and have ignored my son as much as humanly possible without actually crossing the line into neglect (It's OK that he knows all the words to the four episodes of Walking With Dinosaurs that I TiVod for him, isn't it?), and generally made my family wonder what happened to the bitchy troll they know and (I have no idea why) love, and finally finished something.
Now what? Have I met the criteria? Will an agent magically appear? Please? Because I'm at the point of needing to write query letters, and as I told a very nice total stranger not long ago, I'd rather lick a port-a-potty floor after a four-day hippie fest than open myself up to that Hell. Forget trying to go directly to publishers...I think I'd burst into flames before I finished penning the first missive.
Way to go, Mr. Evans - I really do think it's terrific that you made this happen - and make no mistake, you worked hard and made this happen. I'm glad your work is paying off, because it gives hope to writers like me who doubt themselves but keep on plugging. But first I need to go whimper quietly in the corner.