I mean, cold out of nowhere, blindsided, slapped upside the face with a wet dishtowel where did this COME from land, I have --
an assignment for a 1200-word breed profile on the British Shorthair, due 30 October. Yes, it pays.
Sign me confused. Pleased, but confused. (I mean, yes, I was a writer, and I gave it up for Lent. Or Thanksgiving. Or maybe I just got tired of the staring at the blank page until drops of blood form on my forehead part. It was a long time ago, I don't remember clearly.) I didn't quit the cat fancy quite so long ago, but I'm pretty sure I haven't taken a cat to a show in maybe three years. So, why--?
No, I didn't tell the editor this; I told her I could do it standing on my head, metaphorically speaking. Hey, what's one more commitment here in the land of the madly underemployed?