This is the nonfiction story of one man's quest to publish a fiction novel:

Just so you know, dark emo crybaby Matt didn't last too long.  The tears dried up quickly, leaving crooked little cracked crevices under the eyes.  And a little lotion fixed those too.  Cleared them right up, leaving a smooth facade on the fleshy basin.  So we're all good.  All better.  But two quick thanks are in order.

Thank goodness for all you people and your kind encouraging words.

And thank goodness for my incredible, loving wife.  When I was so down, so distraught, so devastated with the agent’s words, she said the exact right thing.

“Matt, your book is real artsy, and as he said at the conference, he’s looking for a book that can become a movie blockbuster.  He’s looking for the money.  Your book is still good.  Your book can still get published.”

And as much as my self-destructive tendencies want me to believe that’s poppycock, the optimistic sap in me wants to know that’s true.  And why shouldn’t I?  What’s wrong with a little well-meaning delusion?

So let’s keep this train rollin’, baby.  I’ve still got Running Electricity I can try to sell.  I’ve still got my Les Miz story I can tune up.  I’ve still got plenty of ideas for more novels, and even short stories – and that’s where Kristina thinks I should focus my energy.  She keeps pushing me to try to get short stories published.  She thinks it’s easier, and helps create a name for yourself.  And as always, she’s probably right.

Plus, I’ve always got this blog, and you wonderful people.  And I’ve always got your encouraging words, pushing me on.

So let’s forget stupid miserable Matt.  Nobody likes him anyway.  Let’s get some damn stories published.