First order of business: Dear Fuzzy’s Taco Shop in St. Louis. You knew you were being cute when you filled out the name of your restaurant on the paperwork to register your business with the Missouri AG. You signed off on the lascivious tongue-shaped jalapeno logo. Fine. Sure. Go with God.

Perhaps one day I will open a breakfast joint next door and call it “Whisker Biscuits.”

But spare me your saturation advertising trying to convince me that your restaurant is kid-friendly. You wanted a snigger from the college male. Congrats. That’s your clientele.

I’m not offended by your name. I’m offended by you looking me in the ear and telling me that the sky is yellow. Nope. I would eat at a place called Fuzzy Taco shop. I would not bring my teenage daughters to a place called Fuzzy Taco shop. You made your double entendre bed. Get comfy, Rip Van Winker.

Also, a betareader pinged me about the meaning of the word “defenestrated.” She said she was having trouble finding a definition.  “Posh!” quoth I.  Google-google-google… “Ha! That was easy I found i— Holy shit!”

That word does not mean what I thought it meant.

I thought defenestration meant:

But defenestration actually means:

Huh. Live and learn. Fortunately, defenestration still works in the context I was using it. It also means  an unusually swift dismissal or expulsion (as from a political party or office).

Hey! Don’t mock me! You think “decimate” means “totally destroy” when it actually means “trim back by a mere ten percent.” So there!

Got my first betareader feedback from a great friend who straight-out did not like Selfie. God bless ‘im. Absolutely a textbook example of thoughtful criticism in lieu of vicious snark criticism.  Good stuff. Great insights. Some of his suggestions I can fix with editing and some I can’t. Another betareader caught a dozen more slap-to-the-forehead mistakes in the middle chapters. For good or bad, the ms is solidifying into a love-it-or-leave it work of art. It sounds weird to say after getting an ass-whuppin’, but I’m feeling much better about the novel as a consumer-ready product.

I’m ready to query in earnest. I’ll assume that the betareaders who haven’t said a peep by now are no longer reading. No prob, Bob. No hard feelings. Here I go.

Wish me luck.

My missus and I were pillow talking about this classic poem last night. Seems like an appropriate place to ensconce it in Lucite.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all

And sweetest  in the Gale  is heard
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm 

I’ve heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest Sea
Yet never in Extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Fly, you little bastard. Fly!