Man, I would prefer to be sniffing that than what I'm smelling in my office right now. We have a joint refrigerator in my office suite and let's just say someone left their food in their too long. My boss opens the fridge this morning and all stench breaks loose. Hoo-wee! My eyes are still watering. Time for another group email where people have to clean out their fuzzy green messes. I get to feel superior about this one because I haven't brought anything refrigerated for a loooooong time, so I know whatever the stinkpot is, it doesn't belong to me.
Anyway, on to the minty freshness of contracts. I got some from my agent Monday afternoon when I got home from work. I admit that I may have done a booty shaking happy dance. I also may have hugged the contracts while doing aforementioned dance. Perhaps. I confess to nothing.
After several hours of translating mind-bending, IQ dropping legalese, I sent a few questions to my awesome agent...and poof! I have a contract. Signed, sealed, pretty, and sent off to the Powers That Be.
Now for the fun part. I'm putting in for my provisional PAN membership at RWA. Technically, I could have done it with my first Kensington contract, but I never got around to it, so I'm doing it with this one. Woot! I feel so official.
So, I'm either high off the giddiness of contracts and official writer-ness, or I'm high from the fumes of whatever died in the fridge. Your call.