The good news is someone in the PaNaMa household is getting published.
Through McSweeney's.
An actual book.
The bad news is, it's not me.
I'm happy for my over-extended, coffee-achieving, sickeningly-funny, and wickedly-smart husband.
Really.
And I have only myself to blame for not trying hard enough to get myself in (real) print. I often think if I could just harness the same energy I have to train for a marathon or a triathlon into submitting pieces to editors, I'd make some headway. But I'm lacking fire in my belly and I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because I want to stay focused on my manuscript and not bother with other pieces that would become more distracting. Or maybe it's that paralyzing fear that I just don't have what it takes.
I won't know, though, unless I try.
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