But Call Me Betsy

Okay, I always feel like a 12 year old girl on myspace whenever I try to take pictures of myself, but oh, well. Here's the new haircut, mother. I got it done at Ground Zero and the woman who cut it was Whitney. She was awesome. See if you can spot a fat cat somewhere in this photo. Sideview illustrating the layers and also my glowing computer screen in the background. Hopefully, I won't always have to keep one eye shut because of the new long bangs. Why do I always stick my tongue out when I try to take a smiling picture?

How does one balance self-promotion and modesty? I don't know. So, like, I want to tell you good things that are happening to me, but at the same time, I feel like apologizing for being so self-centered. Pretend I'm writing about someone else. Not me. Not me got an e-mail the other day from a literary agent who read my story, "Wanted," in Cimmaron Review and said that he thinks that I could do well with a novel. He suggested that I send him 50 pages of a novel and he would read it and potentially shop it out to publishers. I wrote back to tell him that I do have a book of short stories coming out and that I had a couple of ideas for a novel. He responded with an anticlimactic e-mail that basically said, Well, when you have 50 pages, let me know. I think I could write an Evie book, but I don't know what it would be about. I am resistant to writing this Bridget Jones type book where everything works out in the end and the fat girl gets the hot guy. I'd rather...