You know I don't cuss. Honestly. And I'm not going to today, either.
You know I don't tell the whole truth on my blog. And I'm not going to do that, either. I mean, I don't make things up on here; I leave them out. I will leave some things out. And not just the cusswords.
So here's the true-but-leaving-some-key-details-out story. I threw a tantrum today.
Yeah... I know. Call the papers. Breaking news.
And I refused to read at the Lit Fest, and I left.
That's it. No more details. Entirely my fault for being such a colossal, tantrum-throwing loser.
Okay. But I did end up meeting and hanging out with Greg Taylor, a screenwriter of notable accomplishment, whose first novel Killer Pizza is coming out this spring from Feiwel & Friends/Macmillan, and that was pretty awesome, because I am always in such awe of meeting real writers. And Greg strikes me as the type of writer who never throws tantrums, but, to be honest, I think I saw his eyes light up knowingly when I talked about how many times I've folded my arms across my chest and stamped my foot down and said I am never going to fucking write again, so leave me alone because I am no longer speaking to the fucking world.
Anyway, while I still can, I am putting in a request for an ARC of Killer Pizza, because it sounds... well... killer.
Now I am going to go outside and break something big.