The end of my first full day at Publisher's Weekly. Imagine being surrounded by every new book that you'd like to buy. Then multiply the number of books around you by twenty; that's roughly how many crappy new books--romances, weird memoirs, seemingly self-published advice books--are flying out of publishers' doors every day. And they all come here, burying the fifteen or so good books in a pile of muck so thick it's nearly impossible to spot survivors. And yet the brave staff here, of which I am so suddenly a member, does. Yes, yes, read Pub Weekly, it's better than the rest.
But I feel good, not stressed or mean or anything. Sort of calm. I can do this job, and in fact, I can even enjoy it. Yes, I think this will be good.
Working three jobs--the two teaching gigs I have to see through until the end of the month plus this one part-time--has run me pretty ragged this week, though. Haven't done any writing, really. Looking forward to doing some of that not too long from now.
friends visiting from ME and CT this weekend, when, on Sunday, we'll attend the wedding of JP. And then, on Sunday night, home comes B!