Just started both the next round of query letters for my book and a big ol' pot roast using the last of the summer carrots. It remains to be seen which will go down easier. 

The big gimmick for my next book will be I wrote it entirely while idling in line at In 'N' Out. 

Seriously considering sending this the next time a literary agent requests a bio: "David Scott Silva was born in the Los Angeles suburb of Southern California. He attended various colleges in the region, majoring in completed entrance exams. Following a twenty-year newspaper career highlighted by ten years of health insurance, he received an honorary doctorate in alcoholism and a 6-piece set of quality bake ware from the Society of Professional Journalists. He lives in Riverside with his wife Sharon, Australian shepherd Gus, and Italian cat and former city editor Marley."  

I've decided to make my book infinitely more marketable by lowering the characters' ages to 17 and turning the hero into a bodice-ripping vampire.

Most people don't even know how much their lives were affected by Richard Matheson. He not only wrote some of the best science fiction, horror and fantasy in film and television (The Incredible Shrinking Man, Hell House, What Dreams May Come and the book on which Somewhere In Time was based), but he invented the modern zombie genre with I Am Legend. Matheson was a national treasure. 

Trader Joe's Cashier: So whatcha doing these days, sweetie?

Me: Not much...just trying to get this book published.

Cashier: A book? You wrote a book?

Me: Yeah.

Cashier: How long did it take you to write it?

Me: Seven months. And I've spent a month so far trying to get it published.

Cashier: Well, I'll keep my fingers crossed for you.

Me: Thank you, that's very sweet.

Cashier: Hey, I know what you're going through. My husband's been out of work for a year too.

Just started the second installment of my book series. Sure, the first book hasn't been sold to anyone, but why until the last minute?

I once got a call from the construction manager of the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge improvement program, complimenting me on the 2,000-word article I'd written about the project's structural engineering challenges. He asked where I studied engineering and I told him "Google." I once ghost-wrote a 100-page manual on golf tips based on a pile of scribbled notes from a famously alcoholic golf pro. After it published, he asked if I wanted to get together to play a few holes, and I told him I never played a game of golf in my life. All of which to say that if there's one thing in this world I know how to do, it's write copy. It's what I do. So will someone please explain to me why -- why, why, why -- can I not write two freaking paragraphs describing my novel to a literary agent?

Finished editing, and now it's all about writing the synopsis -- explaining 412 pages of plot in less than eight pages. In other words, using fewer words than I otherwise would to describe something. This does not come naturally to me, I assure you. 

Was just at the FedEx store having copies of my book printed for Sharon to edit, and the clerk asked me what it felt like to write it. "Like having a 113,000-word baby without an epidural," I said. "Wow, that sounds tough," she said. "Yeah, but just look at it," I replied, holding up the thumb drive that held the file. "Isn't she the most beautiful baby you've ever seen?"