Being done a project just means that now you get to figure out how to make it run off and stand on its own. It also means it’s time to start a new project. Ah, the on-goingness of life…

• I need to think out my plans, my motivations, my schemes and plots.
• I need to research publishers.
• I need to write a summery of my book.
• I need to find more readers for my book, to bounce it off of. People who don’t mind getting over 200 pages of text to fuck with. UGH. So much printing, etc. 

But it’s time for something else, too. Something else as well.

• It’s time to start a new book.

See, I think my plan is something like this… It’d be nice to send my book off to the biggest, coolest publisher out there, to try to get published hardcore, but I don’t think that’ll really happen. 

No, I think I’m better off taking the quieter, grass-roots, punk-rock approach, which is to approach smaller, more local publishers, and then just build up. Don’t worry about making a million on the first book, as nice as that’d be. Just build up. 

And part of the secret to that involves getting another book going right away. Don’t take any down time, just jump straight into the next project, which will be even larger and scarier than all the previous ones! Growing in exponential steps!

Yes, that’s the plan. Just keep writing, start researching, keep moving.

“Did you look for it alphabetically under the first letter the title starts with?”

- Bookseller version of “Have you tried turning it off and on again?”

I want you to submit to me. I want you to get down on your hands and knees, and give me something to read that you wrote yourself. I want you to see if you can make me smile. I want you to take a chance, and offer something up. I want you, too.

If it were up to me, and I’d keep my head down and just keep digging until a golden skull with diamonds for eyeballs, were uncovered. If it were up to me, I’d have eighteen magic monkey paws, all curled up and granting wishes with terrible curses and minor misspellings.

I could sleep forever in your bed. I could make the place my own, until you got home. I could hold you, hold you to me, hold you fast, hold you in a prison cell made of blood and lies.

I feel like a super-human with bones poured out of cement, and thick layers of steel for skin. I feel like I could burst into the sky like fireworks, and come crashing back down to earth like so much nuclear nostalgia. I could be a rain of poisonous moments. I could be a snake, hidden in the curvature of the carpeting.