(The story, for those who are curious, is about a man who inexplicably has been left out of the Book of Fate. This isn't a good thing, either from the man's point of view or Fate's, who's been having a rough time of it lately, what with the cosmic-scale writer's block he's been suffering from. When you're the Supreme Author of All that Is, the last thing you want is writer's block. You also probably don't want to hear about loose strays running through a Story you've spent a hundred years crafting.)
I've heard I now need to do something with the manuscript, which, at nearly 500 pages, would make a great source of future kindling for camping. Alternatively, I could get an agent. Or perhaps self-publish. Or maybe find one of those vanity publishers I've heard so much about. I could be vain. Maybe not.
But for now, it's a beautiful Sunday, I have a pile of dogs and cats to look after (not all in the same pile, fortunately), and it's time to head to the city with my wonderful wife, who has offered to read the novel even though it's probably not up her alley. She's kind like that. She also doesn't know what she's getting into.