9:26 p.m.

Agent Jennifer Jackson provides some advice on getting an agent which is well worth reading.

(I totally wish my agent had a blog, because she's smart and funny and sharp and savvy, and I bet it'd make good reading.)

Our bathtub is clogged. We had to bail water out of it after showering this morning. Sux. It's been draining slowly for a while, but became totally clogged last night. I tried all the obvious things to unclog it, with no success. Now I'm waiting for the landlord to come over with a drill we can use to power my 15-foot drain snake.

Ah, he just arrived, with a 25-foot motorized drain snake he borrowed from his landlord! Whoo!

We think we found a caterer! We went to a tasting tonight, and the food was good, they're very up-front about their prices, don't seem to have any hidden costs, are personable, within our budget (just), etc. I'd rather have a catered wedding than a potluck one, if only because it's less to worry about -- they'll do the setup and teardown, serving, etc. Hell, what else is novel advance money for, if not throwing a big party? We're trying to figure out the guest list. We can only invite about 60-70 people, and lots of those slots go to family. We've got tons of friends we'd love to invite, but won't have space for anywhere near all of them. So, fond friends, in advance, don't be hurt if we don't invite you! We'll get as many of you in as we can.

Toby Buckell has posted the preliminary findings of his novel advance survey. Look at all the dots! One of the dots is me! If you've sold a novel, fill out his survey, so he can get more data. My advance was better than the average he's found so far, though there are several dots higher than mine, so I don't feel grossly overcompensated...

11:15 p.m.

Our new landlord is a great guy. He came over with one of his roommates and the mighty drain snake, and within twenty minutes had pulled out a wad of congealed nastiness the size of an alley rat. Years and years of accumulated hair. Astonishingly gross. The whole time he was here, he kept apologizing for having to interrupt our evening, etc. Such a nice change from our old landlords, who responded to any complaint with shouting and accusations. Now, for the first time in ages, the tub runs clean and clear and freely. Stress is gone.

The novel I'm writing is, in part, about all the little things that make life difficult, the inconveniences and annoyances and petty breakages that plague you, the routine-breaking, free-time-devouring spoilage of the everyday, which over time can seep into your life and rot it out from the inside if. If I were a superstitious type, I might think I was somehow bringing these annoyances on myself by writing about them (we recently had the clogged toilet, the stripped handles on the sink, the broken trunk, the leaky car, flat tires, etc. ad infinitum). But, of course, that's just confirmation bias; I'm hyper-aware of such tiny, cascading irritations, since I'm writing about them now. I know that, in truth, it's all just the blind clashing together of objects in a mindless material universe. That thought makes me feel better. I find atheism very comforting. There's nobody up there in the sky looking out for me, true, but there's also nobody up there out to get me.