*a rousing round of applause erupts*
I have nudged Ravenous Romance about progress on them getting Writhe out to the hungry (please, tell me you’re still hungry *lol*) masses. I even got a prompt response.
Apparently they are experiencing a backlog on covers and mine should be complete by early next week. Publication of my 15th totally awesome, must-read book will follow shortly thereafter.
I nudged (I hate nudging) and I feel a little better (I like feeling better).
So definitely a “Yeah!” kind of an afternoon here at Chloe’s.
Meanwhile Frank, my specter of imminent failure I’ve been shoving out my front door the last few days, has finally made it out of my house. I have closed and locked the door behind him and checked all the windows to assure he can’t slither his foulness back in.
When I got the word from Ravenous Romance that it would at least be another week before release day, I did catch Frank peeking in through my kitchen window. Now, he could have been looking for his crumpets, but I’m pretty sure he was looking for me.
But no worries.
I’ve been stalked by failure going on an electrifying 23 years now, so I know what I’m doing. (Only once in all that time did I have to actually dismantle the dining room table and nail the wood planks across the door to keep the fiend out. Admittedly, it was a bad scene and there may have been one too many viewings of “Night of the Living Dead” going on during it. But everybody has those zombie-banging-at-your-door moments, right? *grins*).
Despite that one little slip-up, once I get the creep out of the house, I can generally keep him there… until, that is, his bigger and badder and deader cousin shows up the next release-day go around.
But as long as failure keeps showing up as ghastly ghouls I’m A-OK. Relatively speaking, that is.
If the sons of bitches ever show up as Hitchcockian birds, well, then we’ve got a problem.