Right, so it’s Friday …

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It’s been an amazing week for me, and I’ll go into details when everything is finalized as I don’t want to publicly count my chickens before they are all hatched.

It has involved recruiters, sales of companies, and the death of Chocolate. That’s all I’m saying for now.

To occupy my time while I wait for the stars to align, I’ve been translating a certain author’s new book into electronic format for the ease and readability of those with Sony Readers, Palm devices, and Blackberrys. It’s been a labor of love, because coding a book into .lrf/BBeB format isn’t a cakewalk, and when I start on the formatting for Mobi and Palm, I’ll simply lean back, close my eyes, and think of England.

My birthday’s next Tuesday. Just an FYI. I’ll be 35, which is closer to 40 than 30, but I’m feeling much younger, and people tell me I look younger, so I’m okay with it. So far. It’s been years since someone had to talk me down off the Ambassador Bridge. A friend on MySpace told me that I should just have D feed me jello shots ALL DAY to keep me drunk and occupied. Raspberry and Vodka, please and thank you.

I have been working on m own novels, Never and CDI. At the bar last Friday in-between stamping hands and listening to angry bands, I managed to write a chapter of CDI that had been swirling around in my head forever as filler that needed a home within the book but I couldn’t place it anywhere. I grabbed a sheet of paper, folded it into quarters, and wrote seven quarters in really small handwriting of how our Penda arrived in Paradise Valley in the 40’s and came to work at the Cat Dragged Inn. It came so easily, I almost dread looking over it to transcribe it – but yes, PJ, I will – for fear of losing that spark I had when I wrote it. It came together so well.

Never flows as well and it looks like I may get both of these done in the coming year. I’ve been happier lately and that makes me want to sit down and write lots more. You’d think that a darker, more destructive mood would make for better writing with the material I concoct, but it’s the opposite. Happy me means happy deaths. YAYs!

Dear Radio Stations that exclusively play Holiday music from the middle of November until the Epiphany: there are more artists than the Jackson 5, Mariah Carey, Darlene Love, and Peggy Lee.  My God, if I hear “Jingle Bell Rock” by any of those artists one more time TODAY, there will be blood in the streets.  Holiday cheer be damned.

Speaking of Holiday Cheer, I will be posting “Twas the Night” next week, since I neglected to get it published this year – totally forgot to submit it anywhere.  If anyone knows anyone still calling for Christmas horror stories, lemme know.

So back to writing for me.  The more writing I do now, the less I have to worry about when the retail season over at Lush kicks in and I’m too exhausted to empty the words from my head.

Oh – Little Black Book Project – can I get a heads up on where it is please?



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Just this fox. I'm a writer of horror and dark fantasy. I totally don't brag about it. The latter statement is an utter lie.
  • Owen
    December 7, 2007 - 7:52 pm

    Happy birthday early anyway. I know how thirty-five feels. I’ve tried it out now for almost four months and, personally, think it sucks. But for you? I thought you were years younger than I, for whatever that’s worth, thrifty-fifth will be great. Good luck with the various things.

    Owen Hansen

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