on Anne R. Allen:
I don’t really have to tell you, do I?
Success followed by failure.
Ups followed by crashes.
Sinatra sang it: Flying high in April. Shot down in May.
One week you pop the Dom Perignon.
The next, you’re knee deep in rotgut vodka empties/rumpled chocolate wrappers.
You’ve lost/gained weight.
Your spouse has had it with you.
And your kids think you’re the baby.
And your dog is considering joining the military and volunteering for a suicide mission in Timbuktu just to get away from you and your publishing roller coaster.