The plovers that have been camping out in our yard and terrorising unsolicited callers have finally hatched their eggs. There's four cute, tiny, puff-balls toddling in the grass near the front fence. The last one to hatch is still working out what these things called 'legs' are for and how they work.
I've named that one Little Wobble.
The family of six are still ambling aimlessly in our lawn, but will soon be exploring greater territories in the neighbourhood.
In other business, I need to go out and fetch some asthma meds. Which should give me a great excuse to also fetch Beloved's birthday gift. If I can afford it after getting my meds.
I might have to wait until the following Tuesday, which kind'a chafes my niblets. Beloved means a great deal to me, and the fact that I can't always give them what they deserve is... irritating.
When I finally sell my books, I might be able to recoup that lack. But I have to actually sell my books.
And speaking of sales, that last agent just won't frelling bother to contact me if they're not interested in my pitch. Fuck. That sort of noise is kind of rude of them, but I get that they're busy as shit and can't always have the time to send plebes like me a form letter telling me to rack off.
But I still have to stay off the radar until January, because the NaNo crowd will be inundating agents everywhere with their brand-new books. I know it's still halfway through November, but there's a chance that my emails will only gain notice during NaNo season.
So I keep my books out of various inboxes until January. And keep writing my extant WIPs.