My desk is in front of a big window in what used to be the living room of our house. A big yellow full moon is looking in at me right now. About 45 minutes ago it was still low on the horizon and glowing orange as a Halloween jack-o-lantern.
I got a rejection letter today. Well, hell, really I got two. One was from another major mass market publisher, via my agent, rejecting Amara’s Prayer. The other one was from the small Yard Dog Press. I’d submitted a story for the new International House of Bubbas anthology. The pay was next to nothing. I submitted because of the company’s attitude; the Yard Dogs are a heck of a lot of fun at conventions. I’m not so upset about the rejection itself. The problem is that the story was written specifically for that anthology and now I’m not sure what to do with it. I can’t simply sub it somewhere else. It’ll have to have major revisions. Or go in the drawer. It’s a mix of horror and humor called “Noodlers Nab Nekkid Nymphos.” I’ll have to think on it a spell.
I should be working on The Prometheus Syndrome. But the moon … she calls me. My bones ache. And all this hair is making me hot. And I hunger.