Still life of a Shih Tzu with multiple, stacked manuscripts.

My New York agent asked me to print out seven copies of the manuscript of my novel for distrubution (I assume) to interested publishers, and so that's what we've spent the past couple of days doing. (My New York agent. I love being able to write that. I love saying it. My New York agent. It rolls so tripppingly off the tongue)

Bao was bit bewildered by it all. What is she doing? Why does she keep screaming at that poor little grey plastic machine? Why did she get so mad just because I tried to make a nest in that stack of paper? When are we going for our walk?

My printer is one of those modest affairs that gets bundled in with the computer (Buy this computer and get a free printer) and I wasn't sure it would be up to the task of printing 2,336 pages. But it rose manificently to the occasion, like the little train in the children's story. I could practically hear it saying, I think I can, I think I can. Chugg, chugg, chugg. Four pages per minute, except when the paper jammed or we ran out of ink. Finally, an hour ago, all seven copies went off with the nice man from Fedex. Gosh, it's exciting!

I thought I should do something nice for my plucky little printer, reward it for a job well done. But when I asked, What would you like? it just blinked its green light at me.

Bao is glad it's over, whatever it was. All that collating, all that angst. But of course, it's just the beginning. It could be months and months before anything else happens. Will my novel actually sell? Dogs don't have such worries. Dogs don't write books. Dogs live totally in the moment (if you believe Cesar Milan) and at this particular moment, Bao is asleep on my instep.

And Bao is right.

So I'm going out to sit in the garden.