Outside of flailing tweets/pitches for the Pitchmad (#pitmad) event I've barely thought of my dead 12-year-old.
Participating agents tiptoeing through the tulips of unpublished masterpieces would 'heart' the MS tickling their fancy.
As I refuse to splurge and join the rest of humanity and sell my soul to a handheld screen, I couldn't jump on the Pitchmad 8 AM start point. I don't think it matters. At this point I know when it comes to getting an agent or getting published I'm the equivalent of a minor league mainstay, a former high school baseball star fast approaching 29 and struggling to digest the cold hard fact the beckoning to the show will never ever arrive.
For the last year or so my reading has consisted of virtually nothing but comic books. Between writing three novels and starting a new job, it's all my brain can absorb. I chugged 30 Bukowski books, mostly his poetry, and pondered the fact that I'm a good decade-and-a-half too old to properly enjoy those angry-boozy-floozy waters. And the few novels I have read in the last couple of months - including The Late Show and Forever And A Death - annoyed the holy living shit out of me. The former because Connelly's schtick is wearing thin, the latter because Westlake is best writing bleak noir type stuff. Anything outside of that narrow corner - especially a reworked 007 screenplay idea - lacks punch.
Now the endless parade of funny books depresses me. Too much good stuff. Or just too much.
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