Received two emails which encouraged a positive outlook on an upcoming week cast under gray skies and frozen temps.
The first was from John Sandford, the best-selling writer of Lucas Davenport's "Prey" series, along with a cast of others. I'd written him a few days earlier in regards to how one of his characters, BCA Detective Virgil Flowers, reminds me so much of Owen Wilson, (itty bitty cowboy from "Night at the Museum,") that I can no longer read his work without picturing Owen's face in every scene involving Virgil.
Sandford's response was, "Fascinating deduction. I can see the resemblance."
He then went on to inform me that Davenport's character was actually created after NBA coaching legend, Pat Riley, who's dapper attire, mixed with that gangster-like persona, sparked an idea, which manifested into one of the best Homicide Detectives between here and Wonderland.
Considering how I've read nearly everything he's penned, reading that message was an honor.
Next email...a publishing house, (actually two working together,) interested in my manuscript, was asking me to revise a few sections, and return it to them to look over.
Only a lifelong dream...okay.
And on a sidenote...the Colts and Saints arrived in Miami to prepare for the Super Bowl. The Colts were favored, but them Saints...riding that emotional rollercoaster of Southern Hope...that would be something.
My Oldest Son revealed to me that he was interested in going to Tampa University down in the Gulf Coast.
I glanced out the window. Glared at the somber gray skies, like a frigid net holding us all in place to wallow in our own gloom. Checked out the temperature...14 degrees, and said, "Can I go too?"
Stayed up until 3 am revising the manuscript. Slept on it. Re-read it in the morning. Liked it enough. Exhaled a deep breath...hit SEND.
In an attempt at sparking fire under the asses of a depressed work crew, one of the top henchmen at my German place of employment, Heinrich Anus Gugenshplat, made his presence felt by stopping at each workcenter in order to verbally put us in our place, which was already lower than the top layer of frozen soil under the ice outside.
"Nein! Nein! Nein!" Stop...cough...entwine hands behind back before continuing..."Meir! Meir! Meir!"
To us here in the states, we're guessing the guy's a bit emotional over his horse's ninth birthday. But in the Mother Land, this stands for No! No! No! and More! More! More!
He then adds fuel to the spark by sending down The PitBull, whose nothing more than a senseless, overgrown hothead, handed the title of manager, for no better reason than to use his 6 foot five inch frame to instill fear into us mere mortals, thus "scaring the company into a more productive outcome." Just what the economy needs...
But I'm stuck on something old Heinrich blurted out during his tantrum. "Nein." Which still means "No!" in German...but one more than eight to me. And I think to myself...Drew Brees, the quarterback of the Saints...his uniform number is 9. Hmm...
Big storm rolling in.
I find myself on page 127 of John Sandford's "Rough Country," starring none other than Virgil Flowers, (Owen Wilson,) when I come across the line, "...you can get So Close...But"
I stop reading. Think of my blog title, and wonder..."has Sandford been reading my...duhh. What are the chances? Keep reading and forget about it."
Then I check my email. Find one from the publisher...they like what they're seeing and want to talk...
Contract signed. "Broken" has been accepted. A typical first time writer contract, with little at stake, but high royalties...just in case. A publishing house in Michigan will print it, one closer to home will distribute it...and who knows.
Feeling downright giddy, I march into work and am immediately bullrushed by the PitBull. Picture the mindset of a toddler, biting/stomping/hair pulling/belching and so on, in the body of a disgruntled linebacker...The PitBull.
"You need to seriously think about your performance this week," he barks into my face before allowing me a chance to mentally switch gears from Bliss...to Misery.
With very little hesitation, I fire back with, "And you should take comfort in the fact that the measure of a man isn't determined by one's people skills!"
I wasn't sure just then if I'd heard that one somewhere and was quoting it, or had managed to pull it out of my skeletal closet on a moment's notice. Either way, I felt every bit as tall as the slobbering fiend standing before me.
Caught off-guard, PitBull huffed, he puffed, but no matter how hard he tried, he simply couldn't fire off anything remotely close to what I'd just thrown at him. Blushing in anger, he stomped off...and my bliss returned.
The snow became a blizzard, and I thought...hmm, sign my first contract on the day of The Storm of the Century. There's a joke in there somewhere. I'm sure of it.
Super Bowl...Saints win.
"Nein! Nein! Nein!"