I was between marriages and headed to the grocery store for single guy staples: beer, butter, beef jerky, one-ply toilet paper, beer, and tater chips.

Bill also kept things interesting by modulating keys or switching to another song entirely while we were in the middle of a song.

It’s not the countless grammar errors, gaping holes in logic, or the lack of critical thought. Nope. It’s the lack of creativity in excuses.

I took a deep cleansing breath, and returned to the sentence frags, comma splices, and 300-500 word run-on sentences.

After the Universe applies an intricate and unknown series of algorithms that eventually lead to a writer landing an agent—hot dang a-mighty, Margo, quit your job, I got me an agent and I’m gonna be on the New York Times Bestseller List in a month or two—the waiting starts all over again, this time for the ever-elusive publishing contract.