Wednesday, March 18, 2015

State of the Apocalypse, Post-St. Patrick's Day Edition

I had to do something. I’d let this blog slide for so long. Which is stupid, because the blog drives book sales. Sales didn’t flatline, gods be praised, but it was close enough.

I just haven’t had it in me for small talk. And small talk is all I can do after browsing the Great Social Media Shitstorms of the day. I see no point in alienating either side. In case you don’t follow Twitter wars or blog comment threads (and good for you if you don’t), there are some really nasty pieces of work out there. I’d love to bring my fists to the party, but I don’t have the juice to survive a dogpiling, doxxing, SWATting, and all the other hateful business that goes on in the name of...shit, I dare not even speak the name.

Overall, it’s simply not worth the energy or time. Curiously, though, I will enter the hashtags on Twitter and scroll down through the virtual fire and smoke to energize myself when I don’t feel like writing. Rage-squeezed cortisol is a dirty fuel that burns dirty as hell, but I seem to prefer it to exercise and constructive reading. Eddie Allan Poe’s Imp of the Perverse never sleeps.

I only mention this here to shame myself into quitting. Goddamn it, why can’t I just watch porn like the other guys? Another topic for another day.

In some corners of neo-Puritan USA, you’re not allowed
to laugh at this. Check your local regulations.
Another St. Patrick’s Day has come and gone, and this year I’ve reflected more than most on how I used to really enjoy drinking green-dyed draft beer and hollerin’ and singin’ and all that. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss it a little.

But only a little. Besides, there’s no place to really do that anymore that I can think of. It’s been a while since I’ve been in a place that sells draft beer by the pitcher. Given these twitchy times, I can see why most places quit doing it. “Buzzed driving is drunk driving” and all that. Aside from costing too much on a good night, going out to drink is more trouble than it’s worth.

One of the serendipitous side effects of being a broke-ass mother in this day and age is you don’t miss much of what you cannot afford. I bought some beer last night, brought it home, and knocked back  a couple while playing with my recording software and Windows Movie Maker. That it made for my first blog post in damn near a month was worth celebrating all on its own.

Gotta keep on truckin’, keep on truckin’ down the line...
In regards to the third book in my SAGA OF THE DEAD SILENCER series, there’s great good news, and sorta-kinda bad news. The great good news is that I’m slaying mad pages on THE WRONG KIND OF DEAD. I’m up to page 160, and after much catastrophic...shit, I can’t say it. That’s the sorta-kinda bad news. I’m going so far off the standard zombie apocalypse reservation I don’t dare describe what I’m about to do lest another, much faster writer, take this idea and run with it. It’s that good.

What can I say, except I’ll try to do better. If I can get this book finished, get some more recordings up...well, then. Back to work.