Hello, small endearing rodents. I am back in my own time zone. And though groggy from the red-eye, my paid work writing is piled up and waiting. Conference calls blazing, projects raging, etc. You get the picture. However, nothing similar has occurred in my creative endeavors. There was a phone call with a lovely editor just 3 weeks ago, I swear, that was the equivalent of a fireworks spectacular. I swear a victorious theme song was playing as he and I discussed my book proposal and its social impact. The editor said he wouldn't need much time to get an official offer together, just speak to one person. We cheered and were happy. We got off the phone and did little happy dances, each in our separate offices. And then...fizzle, fizzle, pff, people. Nothing. At first Secret Agent Man was going on "No news is good news," which after week two passed in silence abruptly switched to "No news is...well...no news." Maybe something happened to my friend the editor, which I pray not, but it is odd. I hope his family is well. I hope he is well. I also hope he doesn't go the way of all my literary luck and simply disappear. Don't laugh; it's happened before. So, we sit and wait because that's what we do. Actually, as soon as I get my client deadlines under control, I'm just going to start writing the book. Fuck it, I say. It's going to be a marketable book, a good book. If an excerpt in the New York Times isn't enough to convince these book people, then nothing will, unless I somehow become a famous person, which isn't likely now, is it? I will just have to do it while I am juggling my paid writing work, which will not be easy, but it will be familiar. Forward march, says I! And to intentionally mix a metaphor, it's time to fly.