My fingers are making tens of tiny mistakes on the keyboard as I craft this article.

How come?

Ive just had the greatest lunch ever at the famous Musso & Franks Grill on Hollywood Boulevard in Hollywood, California. And along with the lunch, we ordered a Raymond Burr Cabernet, 1999 vintage.

So, the fingers arent too dexterous, but no matter, the mind and spirit are quite well.

The sky is blue, snow can be seen in the distant winter mountains, and I trekked two miles and back to retrieve my Porsche from the shop. So, I feel tip-top, in shape, and living large.

Anyway, its the perfect situation in which to receive a rejection, which is what I just got, via email, from yet another book editor.

I wonder what hes doing, right now, in my old hometown, where its 25 degrees and cloudy and miserable.

There he is in his cubicle, fretting about whether hell fit into the new corporate superstructure, after his indie company was swallowed whole, by a rapacious predator.

Maybe hes worried that hell have to go back to school and get another degree, or tap into his trust fund, which he promised never to do, unless a dire emergency came up.

And whatever happened to that novel that he thought hed get published one day? Still, its there in his home office garret, gathering dust, wearing the stains of disappointed tears.

Across from me at lunch was a famous actor, one of my favorites, sweetly romancing a girl a third his age, but in the serene setting in which we were blissfully secured, nothing else mattered; or matters still, in the afterglow of what we know to be our delicious place in this universe.

All is well, dear writers, and may all of your rejections be as blissful as this one!