I admit it. It was me. (Remember the part in Liar Liar where Jim Carrey rips one in the elevator? Yeah, that's the expression crossing my face here. Same type of thing.)
I did it.
I joined something.
I became a joiner.
I gave up my independent little life-as-an-island existence by joining a writer's group.
The Mighty Visa has done its job; has flexed its check card muscles.
I'm officially a member of SinC or Sisters in Crime. I'm pretty excited to have joined it, and as soon as I get around to actually turning on my desk top I will print out the application for RWA... and join the other 10,000 romance writers who belong to it.
Then my Visa card will really feel the burn.
It's exciting.
I'm taking steps.
This will happen.
I will make it.
I am a Fictzophrenic. Hear me roar.
Or would it be see me roar?
It's all relative, I'm sure.
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