smug bastard

I think it was Kinky Friedman, novelist, musician, and self-styled sleuth, who said that no one can be smugger than a writer who has just written. If it’s not the Kinkster who said that, then somebody else surely did, and let me just say that I totally dig that twisted little wisdom.

Fact is, I am feeling smug today, Palm fucking Sunday.

And that’s because over the course of my weekend, Friday and Saturday, I was able to write something other than a blog entry or some rant in my private journal.

I actually started writing fiction again, which is after all my first love.

It’s this story I owe a friend, who promised a hand in getting it published within the year. “You’ll have your next bestseller soon,” was what she said.

Like, wow.

Charmaine, my most vicious critic, had seen the prologue and the first few paragraphs of the first chapter, and said they’re okay. She has some questions though, but they’re nothing some minor tweakings can’t thresh out.

Indeed, the muse is with me. And I will plunge into that story again first thing in the morning tomorrow. Updates to follow if I feel like it.

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