I have spent the last month on the emotional tilt-a-whirl of querying literary agents.  I would say rollercoaster, but that’s way too linear.  The tilt-a-whirl, with its undulating vortex of disorientation is a much better analogy. It’s a process, I suppose I could say that it’s flawed, but I don’t have a suggestion as to how to improve it.  It’s all about who you know, just like in music, and since that’s a world I’m highly acquainted with, I understand why things are the way they are. As…

Hubby Steve and I went to see the Black Crowes last week—Steve and the band have been tight since the late 80s and I came into the fold a few years later.  We all stood around backstage, looking at each other, and somebody said, “How in the hell did this happen?”  We’re all forty.  Or older.  I don’t feel forty.  I don’t even think I feel thirty.  People my age don’t drive around in their car listening to Superchunk, singing at the top of their lungs.  But wait…those…

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