Christina, Wipe away those tears! Madame Butterfly's fall was broken when she fell on a family of rats, which was gorging itself on food scraps from the city's new composting program. Butterfly sustained only minor injuries to the self-esteem organs and, after a protein-rich infusion of Chunky Monkey, decided she WILL self-publish, goddamnit. She will now alert what is left of the media.
Oh phew, the rest of your saga came through. Self publish? Have been that route and it was a marketing piece, with which I had NO financial expectations. But the publisher offered some remarkable ways to market the book…at a hefty price. No thanks!
Perhaps you can rewrite your novel as a puppet show. They have become very trendy. Then someone can turn it into a graphic novel, that way someone in Hollywood (age 23, just up from whatever counts as the mailroom now -- systems administration?) will read it and it can become a Netflix movie. Yes?
As I do when EVERY Puccini opera ends, I am crying inconsolably! I thought only Trump could put me into this frame of mind.
Christina, Wipe away those tears! Madame Butterfly's fall was broken when she fell on a family of rats, which was gorging itself on food scraps from the city's new composting program. Butterfly sustained only minor injuries to the self-esteem organs and, after a protein-rich infusion of Chunky Monkey, decided she WILL self-publish, goddamnit. She will now alert what is left of the media.
Oh phew, the rest of your saga came through. Self publish? Have been that route and it was a marketing piece, with which I had NO financial expectations. But the publisher offered some remarkable ways to market the book…at a hefty price. No thanks!
“Decided she” what? Do I have to wait for the next chapter? Or Act 3?
Hysterical. The fall of civilization is driving you to great heights.
When Little Piggies Fly, I am still waiting . . . this was a heartfelt one, Joyce . . .
Jumping out the window to one’s death can increase the odds that your book will be published. But it isn’t recommended.
Even Rizzoli?
Madame Butterfly dreams big.
Are you on something, darling? But this was a nice bit: "Cio Cio San’s best friend, HERB SAN, enters. His face is green, for he is jaded."
Just high on life, Margo. And Travatore, last night at the Met, may have ben an influence.
I envy you being high on anything. I am still working my way out of the Trump depression.
You hit all the conventional highlights of 98% of opera today. And I thought fleetingly that you might be one of US.
You'll never publish that novel, Joyce, NEVER!
And yes, that was the curse.
Therry, I'm afraid I don't understand.
It didn't used to be this way.
Perhaps you can rewrite your novel as a puppet show. They have become very trendy. Then someone can turn it into a graphic novel, that way someone in Hollywood (age 23, just up from whatever counts as the mailroom now -- systems administration?) will read it and it can become a Netflix movie. Yes?