Crushed Easter Eggs and my Crushed Soul
I’m sitting alone in my friend Celia’s house eating a large amount of crushed Easter Eggs (Celia works as a food tester, and brings home peculiar leftovers).
Does anyone else ever wish they had a terminal illness, just so they had someplace better to be?
Note to self: In future, do not travel farther than Sydney unless it is for something genuinely enjoyable. You are no longer well enough to handle the stress and/or despair.
Publisher B still hasn’t responded to my gentle I-still-exist email of four weeks ago. Other than the zombie apocalypse theory, the most likely explanation is they are simply too lazy to actually reject my books. I didn’t think anyone in publishing (especially Australian publishing) was that evil, but I heard on Friday a story about exactly that real-life scenario, so now I know it can happen.
Awesome.
Felicity Banks 
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