A series of battles have storm-fucked my cheery-chipperyness the past year, making efforts high and results comparatively low.
Turns out that sometimes if you shadowbox long enough, the shadow gets tired and decides to find a new life as part of an eclipse somewhere else. So, now straddling the mountaintop in relative sunshine and a not-so-chilly breeze, I can take a few moments reaping my sows and binning my baggage.
I’m back to work, in earnest, writing a new novel and letting the edits of the last happen at whatever pace my characters are comfortable with. You can’t force a child to grow up. Whereas I was hoping to let the little book click its pieces together like an airplane engine, it’s instead formed into an evil plague-robot that runs on human teeth. Thus, the marching orders have been rescinded and it’ll remain in the shop awhile longer.
The new book’s a mystery. Not as in “I don’t know what it’ll be,” but as in it has a genre (sort of), and that genre is mystery. Though not my typical fare, this project, though in its infancy, is already smoking cigars, reading the paper, and talking about finding its own place. Updates to follow.
So, I survived the Mayan miscalculation, the new annuals, the many-mustered storms, and the evil robot. My hair is shorter and greyer, my skin is drying in the sun-shiny not-so-cold breeze, and my cheery-chipperyness is returned and apparent in my (still intact) toothy smile. I’m still here, and not going anywhere.
Happy fucking new year. I mean it.