I have excuses. For not writing my daily blog posts, mostly. Some of them are actually pretty good. The sexy, sleek sorts of excuses that garner all kinds of sympathy and get people to tell you it's okay, it was all out of your control and good things came out of it. There's a big ol' car accident, the near deaths of myself and an eight-year-old countered by heroic survival, a deliciously fattening battle featuring me and the IRS versus a shady cupcakery, a snapped scaphoid, adventures with the healthcare system by the skin of my insurance-free teeth, a crippling ten-month live-in/entrapment with a fascist ice cream seller and a mid-twenties manchild, a loss of life conviction followed by the obligatory growth and hope for redemption (obligatory only in cases that do not involve eventual suicide) and I wrote and self-published my first novel--The Difficulty Machine.
Maybe I'll tell you about it some time.
So here we go. I'm back. Let's finish "Those Bastardly Dastards" and get some writing practice in. This is what writers do. We write. And read. And make stuffed bell peppers.
It's been a long, stupid, hilarious and frustrating sixteen months, but I think I'm a real, live human now, finally ready to call myself A WRITER, so let's get this show on the road.
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