You may not have noticed, but once again I didn't win a single Nobel Prize.
Granted, I didn't have much of a chance in all those science ones, and I can see why they picked a Literature winner with a name easier to spell than Pfeffer. But Peace? I mean, who is more peaceful than I? I even let Scooter bite me (well, I try not to, but he is a biter and I am a very peaceful person). And Pfeffer is at least as easy to spell as European Union. Plus I'm a whole lot cuter, which ought to count for something in Peaceland.
But that's how my week is going. My doctor failed to compliment me on my weight loss, even after I casually brought it up three times. She actually suggested I lose more weight, which, while I'm sure it's a fine idea, wasn't exactly what I was waiting to hear.
Then yesterday I had to cancel on going to New York City to participate in an event celebrating the publication of After, in which I have a short story. I felt cruddy, which I'm attributing to the flu shot I got at the doctor's (although just as likely, it was my reaction to being told I should lose more weight). And we will not discuss the baseball playoffs and a certain team I was raised to root for (my father's favorite player was Babe Ruth), which not only doesn't win nearly as often as I would like, but plays games that last forever, making me stay up much too late, thus leaving me vulnerable to Scooter's late night snack on the human routine.
Oh well. The good news is the revisions are all neatly revised, and most likely on their way to the copy editor. Granted the book doesn't have a title, but you can't have everything.
I'm sure it'll have a title in time for next year's Nobel Prizes. And by then, they'll have learned how to spell Pfeffer!