and you would be WRONG. Ho ho, guess who’s blogging again.
Okay, so here’s the deal. I’ve been tugging my hair out tinkering with the dreaded query letter and giving myself an ulcer that no amount of Junior Mints could cure. So in my rare, vulnerable moments on ye ole blog in which I express that I have a soul, I’d like to say: if I don’t get published…I will cry. Deep, heart-wrenching, sobs. Heathcliffian head-banging on tree, howling on the moors type of weeping.
For you see, unless I am high on caffeine or the prospect of watching Michael Fassbender’s Shame on a High Definition big screen TV, I am a reticent girl in person. But if I am doing my job right, my novel and query letter will have an authorial voice that BOOMS. Much like how I like to type in ALL CAPs here.
Oh dear. I am having a melodramatic freak-out in which only a picture of Michael Fassbender’s abs could cure.
The Lit Connection 