I haven’t actually forgotten about you, dear blog; I just don’t love you the way I love writing in my books. You’re a story with no arc, little dialogue, and a climax that hardly merits a hotel room.
Perhaps the best way to keep me interested in your maintenance is to simply write little hate letters to you once a month. My negativity purge, my penance.
Meanwhile, I assure you, dear readers, that the wine still flows, the words still leap, and though I tumble wholeheartedly down the windblown terraces of personal obsessions and dream-matter explosions, you’ll eventually be able to read the end result.
PS- I appreciate your emails, however, to save everyone time: No, I don’t know anyone in the business that can help you. No, I’m not terribly successful myself, so most of my advice is tainted with the secret desire to sabotage my competition. Yes, I would like to hear all about your book and where I can buy it, but first I think we’d need to get to know each other better out in the desert. Ignore the pre-dug holes, they’re just for show. And finally, yes, I do have an opinion about self-publishing vs. traditional, but who cares? Make up your own mind.