It has not been the best week at Fangs and Clause Central. We put the cat (aka my stripy overlord) down last week. She is now in cat heaven, where if she glares at dogs, they disappear. She spends the day next to a fishpond, where the fish taste like liver, chicken, and cheese all at once (but not mixed together, because that’s gross). Cream falls from the sky and forms puddles at her feet. And there are always points of light for her to chase.
Today I’ve turned thirty-most mumbles. Let’s just say it’s my last year to submit to Yale Younger Poets, and I don’t even have a working manuscript anymore. But that’s okay. I have a nonfiction manuscript that is nearing 50,000 pages. I have an arc, I just have to put it into play.
And what do I want for my birthday? I’m so glad you asked. Give me book recommendations. I prefer nonfiction and schlock novels. But I’m interested in anything you have to suggest. Downith told me to read Levels of Life, and I loved it. What else do you have for me?