ToB is back out on the market. I love people who accept electronic submissions--no messing about with stamps and things (particularly challenging for Canadians submitting to US markets).
You would think letter-writing would be an attractive pastime for a writer; and it once was for me, back when I was fifteen and possessed a fountain pen and a great deal of sealing wax. I suppose sealing wax is not technically forbidden on literary submissions, but I cannot imagine it would do me many favours, even in SF/F.
Since I am (a) not fifteen any longer and (b) neurotic, letter-writing is right up there with pizza-ordering and expense-filing in my mental list of Wretched Things. Email-writing, on the other hand, I find relatively painless. Tonight's submission email was a bit more painful than usual, but only because my arms are so fatigued from a killer workout.
I have been very pleased with my ability to submit, of late; apparently my discipline has improved, although I don't know the cause. Work, workouts, mastery? Welcome, anyway.
And now, since I am thinking of it: the pillow-book needs an entry or two.
They say it will snow again this weekend.
There is cat-vomit upon my copy of Middlesex.
A man on the streetcar touched my buttock.
I have never been to England.
My favourite boots are ruined by salt.
Things that give a feeling of grace:
My husband's hair is a hundred kinds of red.
I have seen the albino squirrel in Trinity Bellwoods.
On Lisgar Street, there is a garden behind a high gate.
One cannot have too many cufflinks.