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The One Where J. B. Quits

Just kidding.

I’m not quitting.

But the submission process for a novel is haarrrrrd. I’ve just started the process, so I’m whining. Feel free to think that or even tell me, “toughen up, muffin-butt.”

I ‘preciate ya. Much obliged.

So, I was kicking at cow poo in a Christmas tree field today. Just walking about picking one for Sweet Husband to cut down for us, much as the pioneers did in days of yore. As I walked up and down the rows, I would barely glance at each tree before marking them rejected. About three trees made my, “cut.” Ha!

But I only needed *one* tree. So I made the Boy and SH stand by two of the trees while I ran through the poo back and forth between them, squinting my eyes and picturing each tree in my living room all bedecked and a-sparkle.

Finally, I made my decision for THE ONE.

SH held his saw up to the thin, winter sun where it glinted and then fell to his knees and cut that sucker down.

He grabbed the trunk end and I picked up my end to pay for the pleasure of cutting down our own tree and tying it to our own car by ourselves. See, I’m naturally a whiner.

But as we walked back, I looked at all the rejected trees. Some were ugly. Some were sparse. Some were just too big. And nothing was wrong with a lot of them.

They didn’t fit my house.

They fit someone’s house. But not mine. So they will keep living in the ground until they find their, “forever home.”

Unless they don’t.


At least we don’t have to put all the unsold MSs into the chipper. They have a mission! A Christmas destiny!

And our queries must have hooks.

Happy holidays, y’all. Thanks for listening.



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