Shame On Us

Tough as it is, tough as it ever was, at least you're not in Iraq.

My Cali agent called me at work on Wednesday. He sounded even worse than when I last spoke with him. He sounded tired and thoroughly demoralized. I wonder how many of these phone calls he'd made, checking in with various clients before the holiday. At least writers can keep writing on our own; agents can't do much of anything on their own.

I've had a hard time, but I've got to be thankful for what I've got. A regular desk job that pays relatively well and isn't terribly difficult. A writing career full of promise, just waiting to take off...

It's easy to let the desk job get to me. Easy to worry over the uncertainties of the career.

But I have got so much going for me.

My biggest worries are really negligible in the grand scheme.

A lot of other people have a lot more to lose out there.

I'm recalibrating right now. It sucks, but I've suffered worse indignities.

Happy Thanksgiving, people.

(Except for the people on my shit-list: you people should choke. You know who you fucking are.)