I guess it is time to face the fact that I'm not a spring chicken anymore. After a bout of angry gardening this weekend (clearing clutter for Fall planting) and a kickball double-header last night (without warm up), I'm feeling my age. Most days, 33 is fine, but I'm definately not 20 anymore.
I'm busy putting the spit and polish on my second entry for Malpractice. I like this piece, "Room 466 has a Long Memory", but time will tell if the editors feel the same. Writing for anthologies is fun, focused, and therefore seems to elicit my best work. At least I'm having fun, right?