I've been writing, just not what I should have been writing.

The sequel, and Missy... she's more comatose than waiting. I'd say 'poor love' about her but she'd find that tiresome. She'd slap my knee in that way that says I'm not poor and I'm not your love. Do something. 

I have been. Doing something. Not the right thing, but I've needed to wander.

I wrote a book, a little one, and I want to exist beyond all hope. I want it so badly. I need it to be set to paper and illustrated and bound. It's important. I've submitted it to the loveliest publisher, one insisted upon by a dear and illustrious friend, and I've gotten the loveliest postcard back with the loveliest Don't you dare call, write, email, or otherwise beg until at least six months are up and so I'm trying to forget I ever wrote it.

But it's hard. The Canada Post tracking slip is all balled up on my kitchen counter and I keep staring at it and thinking about voodoo and hitchhiking.

I can't tell you what it's about except to say that it's for younger kids, and for artists who struggle, and for younger kids who have an artist in them who's destined to struggle and wonder about things like worth and value and time well spent.

See? Therapy. Wishes. Shooting stars. Rocks etched up and skipped into the sea. Tossing and turning and yeah, I know. The wandering's up. Missy needs her end, and so I forget about the mail and get back to it.