And Then Ed Took Out His Ball Of String

Unintended foraging for personal documents may have exploded me out of the writing rut.

I'm plotting something out, which is oodles more productivity than I've been capable of late (i.e., the last 12 months or so).  At one point, early in my creative life, I was tilted more towards cartooning than prosing.  A random riffle of an old notebook freed characters and a concept now stuck on my nodes (sharp, jagged little extensors that they are).

The current idea birthed as doodles.  Transplant from one artistic form to another usually proves catastrophic. Talking at length spooks the horse. The horse runs off.  And the kicked up dust settles.

But having said that...

Good Grief

This blog is now being treated like a red-headed stepchild.  Not surprising given a flurry of non-writing distractions.  Life, I think, is what you call it.

Until I either throw down $700 to have some British dude enlighten me on the in-and-out of Facebook advertising, or I close down the shop everywhere else and let Amazon flag my wares exclusively, I'll make do with a download of the books every now and then.

About the only excitement of late was Self-E accepting Lucid into their program.   Yet another venue through which the book can be read.  I'd love to have the time to read other indie writer's work, but I'm in one of those 'wish in one hand, crap in the other, see which fills up first' situations.   Life, I think, is what you call it.