Sweet

Back to my non-rage fueled posts here. Though I'm making no promises: each time I think about that post I'm astounded anew by its ghoulish indecency. Regardless of whether the issue posited is valid, politically, philosophically, it's just plain rude. Rude isn't strong enough a word. But that's enough of that.

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I have an interview next week.

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Still working on the manuscript for One More Theory About Happiness. I'll be durn if it ain't pretty good, if I do say so myself. Hard to get my head around the fact I might very well have a viable manuscript here, one that operates like a cohesive unit should, like a book. Spending time every day revising, tightening. Notes had been done, basically, for so long that I forgot the fun of this stage -- a heady, fun time.

I used to walk around Tuscaloosa with a spiral bound copy of the manuscript of my first book. Always at my side. In between classes, while my students worked on in-class assignments, whenever I could find a moment, I'd pull it out, making mental notes as I read. Each time the manuscript changed enough to warrant a new copy (which was pretty much all the time), I'd have a new copy printed, bound. Crimson Tide red covers. I still come across them from time to time.

I don't do that anymore but the thought is tempting.

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Congratulations to Eliot for his top secret secret.

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Off to wash my mouth out with soap.