I have wanted to move there since I was a wee little girl reading Winnie the Pooh. No shit. But then I got addicted to Stephen King and that sort of sealed the deal for me. I mean, I was fifteen when I decided that if I was a writer (which I'd wanted to be since my Winnie the Pooh days) and had a book published I could totally afford to move to Maine [insert hysterical knows-better-than-that-almost-40-now laughter here]. And Hey! I'd probably run into Stephen King and I could tell him my funny Pet Sematary story.
But I digress. I still want to move to Maine. A thing the man would love to give me but he says that it could never happen because there's no real work for him there. Poo. But I have decided (after being up half the night thanks to huge thunderstorm, scared dog who tried to take over bedroom after BARKING to be let in and said man snoring) in my delirium that I am still totally hell bent on making that happen.
So buy my books! Help me go to Maine! The more breadwinnerish I am, the better my odds.
Is that not the most stunning slightly-stupid-from-sleep-deprivation-and-odd-possibly-food-poisoning-stomach-thing blog you have ever heard?
But the smut goes on and I am currently in this location as we speak. [In my head, natch]
Carry on. That is all.
p.s. Remember! Buy my books! Help me move to Maine! *snort*