As A Writer I'm More

Most People Are Blind To Magic. They Move Thru A Blank And Empty World. They’re Bored With Their Lives And There’s Nothing They Can Do About It. They’re Eaten Alive By Longing And They’re Dead Before They Die.

She Still Had Her Bad Days, No Question, When The Black Dog Of Depression Sniffed Her Out And Settled Its Crushing Weight On Her Chest And Breathed Its Pungent Dog Breath In Her Face. On Those Days She Called In Sick To The It Shop Where, Most Days, She Untangled Tangled Networks For A Song. On Those Days She Pulled Down The Shades And Ran Dark For Twelve Or Twenty-four Or Seventy-two Hours, However Long It Took For The Black Dog To Go On Home To Its Dark Master.

If There's A Single Lesson That Life Teaches Us, It's That Wishing Doesn't Make It So.

One Already Feels Like An Anachronism, Writing Novels In The Age Of What-ever-this-is-the-age-of, But Touring To Promote Them Feels Doubly Anachronistic. The Marketplace Is Showing An Increasing Intolerance For The Time-honored Practice Of Printing Information On Paper And Shipping It Around The Country.

I'm Happy To Report That 'the New Press' Is Still In Business To This Day. But Not Thanks To Me. I Was A Really Bad Publishing Intern.