Allow me to be full of shit just for one minute. That line just came to my head and for a moment seemed an appropriate first-liner for this entry, which I’m guessing will go on and on and never really say anything even vaguely useful. It’s a stream-of-consciousness-type thing and really just to get fingers on keyboard clack clack clacking so that I can stop feeling guilty for not having typed a single word for me since the oh-nine took her full grip on the universe. So here I go with the clack clack clacking and the not making sense, but kind of making sense in a really nonsensical sort of way, dig?
I keep reading all these writers’ and editors’ and agents’ blogs and people ask them Qs about what it takes, and I’ve just had this idea about jumping into a writing career, like side-stepping right through a wall or something BOO! and just pretending like things are already in full swing. This one I was just reading, the writer has only been writing (or published? or out of clown school?) for five years.
I need to read something inspiring – YA inspiring, not Tolstoy inspiring. Every book I pick up lately seems to be the wrong book. I quit more books in ’08 than ever before. I don’t have the time to read something that doesn’t full-on grab me.
I like to picture myself at a dinner party with the YA it-writers ten (five? *wink*) years from now when we’re all BFFs. Every time I turn my head to listen to John Green tell a silly story, Meg Cabot will be sneaking more red wine into my glass, and the next morning, I’ll be all, Damn you, Meg Cabot!
Hm…I think in oh-nine I will have many fictional meals with authors I admire. In fact, I think I’ll start a category….
If You Believe, Clap 
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