Ninth Grade Sucks

Have I mentioned lately that I love my job? Being a writer has got to be one of the coolest things on the planet. (Next to being a vampire...or a ninja, which beats all, hands down) And I am loving the process.

Last night, as I gloated happily (well, it wasn't gloating so much as gushing repeatedly to my family until they begged me to shut up...which I wouldn't have done unless they'd asked. Come to think of it, even though they'd asked, I didn't shut up) about some initial feedback from two of my readers (maybe I shouldn't have gushed or gloated...maybe I should've sighed in relief that EGB isn't as horrible as I'd feared), my muse brushed off his tiny, crumpled, dusty wings and grunted in my direction.

Now...in case you don't know already, my muse is a very portly, middle-aged fairy with back hair, who wears a pink tutu and chomps on a cigar. I don't know his name, because he never speaks. He merely grunts in my direction (if I'm lucky) and gives me the impression that I owe him my undying thanks for his contribution. I give it to him, because, hey--never tick off the muse.

So last night he grunts and, just as Eighth Grade Bites did a few months ago, Ninth Grade Sucks comes rushing at me like riverwater and I had to grab onto a pen just to stop myself from being carried away. I scribbled down notes on everything and smiled broadly at the muse, who grunted and went back to watching the evening news.

Life is good.

And middle-aged furry guys in tu-tus deserve respect and admiration.