I start my blog entries like that these days.  The above question looks very straight forward. I want to know what happens to the person who decides that they’re going to make a go of life on their own. I want to understand how an individual functions when they try to pull themselves out of mediocrity and live their dreams.

We live in a curious time in American History. Western culture demands that the average individual seeks guidance as a youth. A person is supposed to depend upon their parents for warmth, shelter, wisdom and love. Moms and dads nurture their children by providing the basics as well as opportunities for their education.

But children grow up. Expectations change. Life becomes high school (or is it the other way around?) Children are taught to believe that they are supposed to broaden their minds with books and technology. Yet they are also supposed to round out their learning experiences with intense athletic pursuits or “extra curricular activities.”  Meanwhile, if adolescents succumb to the bombardment of commercials, internet ads, or peer-pressure situations in which they find themselves, they learn that silence is no longer golden. To survive, one has to be a social butterfly, not just in real life, but on the internet. Social Media websites commit younger and younger people to creating a secondary persona that either modulates or inhibits their popularity in school or in other social situations.

A self-reflecting adult might scratch their head at the contradictory messages they received  about life. I was raised as a child of the eighties. Adults of our generation were taught that education was the key to financial success. I used a have an enormous, light-up  picture on my wall with three fancy sports cars in a three car garage by the beach. The motto that was emblazoned at the top of the picture screamed “Justification for a Higher Education.”  Enough Said.

Except not everyone who gets a higher education automatically get those sorts of things. Even going to a top tier college in the country guarantees nothing if you don’t get to know the right people and you don’t focus on the things you love. Anybody who tells you that time is money hasn’t had to look for a job for the last five years in this country.

“The economy is in the crapper.” Those were the words of someone who interviewed me for a sales position years ago. They still pretty much hold true.

Somehow despite all the contradictory forces screaming for our attention, we’re supposed live our dreams. We’re told that we’re better off pulling ourselves out of mediocrity by our bootstraps. We’re also reminded by oversimplified hallmark moments on television shows and food advertisements that we somehow can’t do it alone.

We have to do it by ourselves, but we can’t do it alone.

That includes living our dreams, doesn’t it?

I’ve been sick for the last week and a half. This is the cold that never ends.

Major illness tends to sharpen one’s focus when they begin to recover from it. I, for one, will make it through a major cold like this one and begin to take stock of how well I’m doing living my dreams and meeting my personal goals. Since my largest one by far is writing, I have to remind myself that I can and will write every day.

But like the rest of this story, I’ve come to learn that I can’t really make my dream a reality all on my own. While I try to get my name out there by submitting more and more of my work to various publishers for consideration, I’m getting to the point where I spend a lot of my time with my nose to the grindstone. I push so hard to get more and more writing done, it feels like I’m only picking my head up to notice that everyone else walked off to some social gathering. I’m perfecting the swing of my samurai sword, and everyone else walked to the river to drink beer and sake.

From a professional standpoint, my current solo method seems like a piss poor way to garner real opportunity. From a personal standpoint, I feel more and more like a lone warrior. What happens to warriors who stay alone for too long?

They go nuts and start saying things like “This is my BOOMSTICK!”

Now that I more or less know where I am from a professional and a social standpoint, the question I have to ask myself is “What now?” It’s one thing to understand how much one misses social connection when they’ve been ill for more than a week. It’s quite another thing to realize that this uniquely Western notion of “independence” is not quite all that it’s cracked up to be.

Nobody ever really meets their goals without help, even on a minute level. I’d love to sit here and tell you that I got my first short story published because I woke up one day and inspiration struck me like a bolt of lightning. But that isn’t even close to the truth. I got that story accepted by a publication only after my first attempt with them flopped. I never even asked the editors why I was rejected. I got really annoyed and decided to up the ante. I thought I was a warrior recovering from wounded pride.

But this isn’t about revenge, proper action or silt. I would not have even bothered to finish the story had it not been for my friends, writers or otherwise, who were there to encourage me from day one. My friends are still around, though it’s been a while since I’ve been willing or able to talk with them.

It’s also been a while since I’ve felt like I was a part of a real writing community. I don’t know if I need that feeling again so that my writing can reach the next level, or if I want to be a part of a community so that my social skills don’t fade while I write my next manuscript.

At any rate, here I am world. I’m not quite recovered my from my eternal snot fest. And yes, I know that that description of my illness will make everyone want to stay around me. I’m going to start small and post this blog entry. I’m reentering my former social media sites. I’ll keep on writing, of course. Maybe I just won’t use all of my words to add to the chapters of unseen stories and manuscripts.

I don’t want to talk about why. That’s not important. What is important is that when it comes down to it, my mother is the only mom I’m ever going to have. In the grand scheme of things, she assumes a place in my world that cannot be duplicated or replaced. I can only hope to make her proud someday.

I came home with said bouquet, and mom brought out a vase she’d been saving for the occasion. In true mom fashion, she knew at least one of the family men was going to get her some flowers. Yet it turned out her crystal vase was so huge, dad and I decided to go out and get her a second bouquet .. and a third one.

I’ve got some pictures of the end result. I don’t think the pictures do justice to the sheer size of this floral arrangement, but the cheer that it brought to the home and to my mother was totally worth it. It also helps that I used to work at a garden center in Oregon, so I sort of knew what to do with the flowers once we got them into the apartment.

At any rate, this is a gorgeous Sunday. Happy Mother’s Day to my mom, to all the mothers I know and all the mother’s I’ve yet to meet.

And this is the point where you roll your eyes and ask, “Are you serious?”

Considering that I am now recovering from a cold, I couldn’t be more serious if I tried. Post nasal drip has a way of embarrassing a young writer even in front of the characters in his or her head.

The best part is I then get to put the “Snotgate” incident in one of my other short stories for fun. Quick, what are some original descriptors for “a big ole strand o’ snot?”

The best part I can say about being sick (other than the fact that I am being taken care of at the moment by a very sweet and sexy girlfriend) is that I come up with arguably some of my most insane or brilliant writing ideas when my brain is being turned into “Grey-Matter Stew.”

Why is this the case? I have no idea. It can be argued that some of the most brilliant creative minds in the history of art were some of the most wounded or “ill.” Van Gogh wanted to give his girlfriend a new earring for Christmas once, right? The only problem was the earring was his actual ear. Other than that, kudos to him for his insane passion and devotion – the SAME madness, one could argue, he applied with frantic candor to his famous works of art. Who could look at “Starry Night” and NOT know that this man, brilliant as he was, had some issues? Do you think Munch painted “The Scream” because he was a “happy-go-lucky chap?”

Could “mind altering conditions” of insane variety be responsible for other creative masterpieces? Of course they could! Nobody can argue that Earnest Hemmingway and Virginia Wolf weren’t perhaps some of the most mentally unstable people of the 20th century. There isn’t anyone who would say that Walt Whitman was the most “well-adjusted” fellow, even though some of his poetry is considered worthy enough to be included in classical education curriculum.

And I don’t know what to tell you all about musical names like “Nirvana, Jimi Hendrix,  Radiohead, Prodigy, and Lords of Acid.”

And if you think cinema is getting out of this blog piece unscathed, I got two words for you. Star Wars.

Enough said.

So what am I, an aspiring writer with a penchant for horror and action adventure stories going to contribute with my own illness-inspired insanity?  I won’t really know until enough people read my writing and take a shining to it. (“Heeeeere’s Johnny!”) What I can tell you is that at roughly two in the morning, my fever-melted brain decided to cogitate on the way that the plot of my “ancient Chinese action/adventure-horror” manuscript was evolving. Maybe it was time for me to play “chapter and paragraph” Jenga in order to make sure that two story arcs were unfolding in an interesting and creative enough way so that when the final chapter of the first half of my book was written, everything could come together in one exciting “KABOOM” moment.

And what the hell, you might ask, would constitute a “KABOOM” moment for a bunch of action heroes, mythical monsters,  and their supporting characters in Ancient freakin’ China? Don’t bother asking Marvin the Martian. He isn’t writing this book.

I don’t want to give anything away. But I will say that I can write a hell of a sword fight scene now that I’ve read a book on Chinese sword fighting techniques AND I’ve had a couple of beers.

Does that mean I encourage the ingesting of mind-altering substances whenever authors decide to sit down and commit their fingers to keyboard? No. Frankly, I think that ultimately sets a dangerous, self-limiting precedent, and it doesn’t give you anything interesting to say in those “twelve-step” meetings.  But I don’t discount the possibility that every once in a while, an artist’s body has to be pushed to some rather uncomfortable limits in order for their mind to shut down what’s not important. Once that happens, an artist can focus on the creative essence of their work, and they may come up with some interesting scenarios, ideas or techniques that they never would have pondered if their minds weren’t simmering in “Grey-Matter Stew!”

“Halleluyah. Holy shit. Where’s the tylenol?”

“Surreal” isn’t a term I really like. When I use it, I feel like I’m dumbing down a process through which some major epiphany has granted me the power to move on with my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad life with a fresh, “up with people” perspective.

But if you had been in the neighborhood of 125th and Lenox in upper Manhattan at about a quarter to six this morning, life would have seemed pretty surreal to you too.

I was sleeping next to my girlfriend. She awoke in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. Everything seemed normal. She crawled back into bed next to me and we remembered that it was Sunday and that we really like snuggling together and talking under the covers during a lazy weekend. It helps us remember what matters, even if it’s just a moment in time.

Not five minutes after she came back to bed, a horrible sound of crunching metal and plastic erupted just outside the apartment. It seemed to rattle the bedroom window.  I didn’t know what the sound was. I wasn’t awake enough to make sense of it until a horrible screeching noise followed. Rubber scraped against asphalt, and the squeal seemed to echo into eternity.

“Jesus Christ!”

I think I might have said that twice. I said it once before we both sprang from the bed and ran to the bedroom window to see what had happened. Even now, the fucked up visual doesn’t make any sense without context. I said it again after I told my girlfriend that I had to go take a major piss.

Why I decided to go relieve myself at that moment is still a bit beyond me. All I remember is that I was nauseated, and I still didn’t understand what had happened.

I also recall my knees shaking like the leaves of a quaking aspen in the wind. I sat down on that toilet seat and put my head between my sweating hands. I might have stayed like that for minutes or hours. I didn’t really know or care.

Eventually, I stood up and washed my hands. Like some character out of the show Supernatural, I thought I smelled a Reaper in the air.

I was sure that death lingered close by, waiting to claim the lost soul of the victim of a freak accident.

“Jesus H. Christ!”

I got back to the bedroom and stood next to my girlfriend. She seemed more than willing to give me a blow by blow of what was going on out there.

“Nobody’s gotten out of either car yet.”

“Motherfucker.”

In all honesty, I don’t recall saying that last word. I don’t remember much of what was said after that. But as the haze and the shock of the accident seemed to lift from around us both, things started to fall into place. Out the window, on our side of the street, we only saw two cars. The first one was a silver Charger with its back turned to us like a wounded dog hiding its face.  The second car was sort of sitting to the right of the first. It was a green SUV that didn’t appear to have been even been scratched, at least not from our vantage point. The only thing that seemed to have happened, in fact, was that the SUV was nudged a few feet out of its parking spot.

It made no sense. Such a horrible crash followed by a rubber screech that lasted for at least three seconds just didn’t do … what we saw.

But time ticked by. Some of the neighbors from across the street turned on their bedroom lights and peeked outside like we were doing. Thanks to them, I felt a little better about being some sort of voyeur. The cops were on the scene immediately. The fire department came minutes later. EMT’s never showed. That struck us as odd until we came to the most important conclusion.

Nobody died.

I thought for sure someone was going to buy it. For about a nanosecond I was disappointed. I can’t lie. I’m a horror writer.

Then the stomach ache began.

About an hour later, all sorts of things had happened. The driver of the silver Charger, wearing a black shirt with green writing on it, angrily shouted into his cell phone that the car for which he was responsible was a “fucking wreck.”

“What de’ hell I’m ‘a do wid ‘dis shit?”

His friend, a shorter man with a grey tee shirt on, seemed to be the voice of reason.

“Look, dude, least you’re alive.”

And that was what mattered. When other details fell into place, we learned that nobody, in fact, was dead. A third car was apparently involved in the accident. That unknown driver may or may not have been at fault for the entire catastrophe. We never really got to figure that much out.  A tow truck driver couldn’t even tow the silver wreck out of the way in one try. His truck’s hook lost its grip on the wreckage twice.

I grinned. And call me sadistic, but I was thankful I wasn’t going to have to figure out how to pay for THAT repair bill. The driver and his friend drank two cups of coffee purchased at the deli just below our window.

My girlfriend and I  went back to bed. We didn’t fall asleep right away, of course. We talked about the accident. We talked about how our weekend was going before the crash, and how it might go afterwards. Things like money and job woes don’t matter as much when you’re thankful just to be in one piece. That lesson sinks in deeper when you’re with loved ones.  The problems might not go away, but their importance in the grand scheme of the universe dwindles.

I just got through sending out something like 6 job aps. I took a break to watch a show. I thought about my latest submission of a short story to a magazine for consideration. My girlfriend’s out teaching a dance class. We still have lives to live and things to do to survive in this city. She still has to talk to her dad about her insurance costs, and I still want to start writing the latest chapter for my online serial. At least I know she’ll come home in one piece, and we’ll have an easier time figuring out how to scrounge up enough money for dinner together tonight.

There’s a cat purring in my lap too.

Surreal or serene? Take your pick.

I’m a writer. But I don’t just write blogs, and I won’t hide the short stories and the novels I’m coming up with. My story on Jukepopserials, ‘Unbreakable,’ has its readers. I’ve taken quite a shine to writing it. As the characters continue to evolve, they find new ways to reveal their stories to me. All I do is translate for my characters in a way that honors them and reflects their true nature.

When I started this adventure on Jukepop, I had no idea that the story was going to become what it is. I’ve already come up with 26 installments or chapters, and it seems that each of my characters has a long journey ahead of them. Who knows how each trek will progress, and what it will mean for the post apocalyptic world that I’ve created?

I had the notion once upon a time that there was little to be gained from revealing what is truly at stake when I write this serial. I enjoy writing . Committing my visions to text has been nothing short of amazing. I respect writers who bring their A game all the time, and putting on a game face when I sit to type out the latest installment can be a real challenge. Real life can feel a lot hairier than a zombie apocalypse and hell fire.

To say that I do it for the money, therefore, would seem trivial. But it’s not. You see, the top thirty stories on website receive accolades and cash prizes. While I always bring my best to the table, there is a lot more riding on getting votes on that site then I was willing to admit until now. I wasn’t even sure this story would make it past 15 chapters. But the narrative has taken off. ‘Unbreakable’ remains among the top 45 out of nearly 200 serials on the site.

I know I can do better.

So I will ask everyone I may or may not know, writer, reader, or candlestick maker, to do something.

Go read Unbreakable, create an account on Jukepop and lend me your votes.  When you’re finished doing that, spread the word! Tell friends, family, co workers, anyone with an internet connection on any device who might be interested in horror/paranormal fiction. I’ve been sneaking into the top thirty for a while. It’s time I stopped sneaking and started barreling ahead.

In other news, I’ve decided to lend my voice to another exciting project. A friend of mine named Shaun Adams offered me the chance to record one of his creepiest horror tales in my own dulcet tones. I’ve done small things like this before, and I really like Shaun’s ideas. Take a listen to ““Soil Dweller,” written by Shaun Adams, Recorded by Angel D. Callido.” Let Shaun know what you think of his work. Let me know what you think of mine Want more of Shaun’s stories? Maybe you should find out when Evil is Free on Amazon.com.

Countless soldiers throughout history have probably done this. I know what we all see in the news when war heroes come home to their families. These survivors hug their spouses who’ve lived without their touch for years. They hug their children though they’ve missed precious milestones. Many people have moved on in their absence. Most have gone through their own trials and traumas. Still, everyone big and small feels that their story is the important one.

That’s just the human condition.

I’m guilty of this too. The good thing is I’m not alone. I’m about to tell you a story.

I’ve become a warrior of the word.

I know what you’re thinking. I sound like one of those nut jobs who quote the Bible and hurl Molotov cocktails into abortion clinics. If you’ve read some of my writing, you might think I’ve snapped and begun channeling one of my favorite characters.

“Pleasure to meet you. My name is Ezekiel.”

But that’s not the truth either. The reality may be just as difficult to fathom.

I moved back to New York two years ago. I had little money, a soaring credit card debt, and the wisp of a hope that I might get a job through a relative.

Time has a way of revealing one’s destiny. While I was putting interview clothes I couldn’t afford on a credit card, I was searching. I was waiting. I was hoping that I hadn’t wasted my time coming back home. I didn’t want a repeat of the six months I’d spent in Illinois trying to figure life out. That stretch of time saw me spinning my  wheels and not knowing how to make ends meet. Opportunities were few and far between. Though my best friend from college reached out to me and tried to help me out, I just wasn’t prepared for life in a Midwestern suburb. I didn’t even have a driver’s license. I failed.

Mental note. Don’t ever live in a suburb without a car or a license.

I came back home hoping that I wouldn’t go insane. I was a thirty something and living in a tiny apartment with my parents and my grown autistic brother.

If you’re doing a double take after that last statement, don’t worry. You won’t be the only one.

But times are tough for “thirty -somethings” these days. I’ve heard it all before. People in my generation with college degrees can’t even get into entry level retail work. I won’t even get into that hot mess. People have tough choices to make even though some of us just paid off twenty five thousand dollars in student loans. Sure, one could go back to school if one could somehow pay for it. Being out of college for more than a decade might mean your college credits mean nothing for all those associate’s programs.

There’s just one other hitch. Assuming that there are affordable school programs to attend, it pays to know which jobs aren’t being whittled down to nothing in this economy.

I was applying for a job in Portland, Oregon to work at a Sears as a clerk.  I applied online, landed the interview, and was asked to come in during a Thursday afternoon. The human resources recruiter seemed nice enough, but very sad and distracted throughout the conversation. After telling me that the original position was being whittled down from twenty hours a week to twelve due to “a major oversight,” he older woman turned to me and laid in on the line.

“There are thirty, forty, even fifty year old people applying for entry level clerk positions with this company. We’ve got people with Masters Degrees and PHD’s who need this work, and we can’t do much for them. Let’s face it. The economy is in the crapper.”

After 14 months in the city, I was able to land a part time job as a book seller at a local Barnes and Noble. Since then, I’ve not been able to attain anything else.

I think it might be safe to say that for some, the economy STILL looks like something a toilet bowl cleaner ought to erase.

Life is funny. Promises are broken, constant effort feels more like the definition of insanity, and broke people start to quote musicians and philosophers as though looking for a reason. Life can feel like a cruel joke. Of late, it leaves me feeling a bit like those broken warriors.

Is there a reason to it all? Is life what happens to you when you’re busy making other plans?

I’m still struggling with that question.

On one hand, I would officially call myself an underemployed janitor for the local Barnes and Noble. I just happen to know a thing or two about a book.

Perhaps that’s because I’m writing them.

Writing has been an anchor for me since I reclaimed it more than a year ago. I might never be a real estate tycoon or win the lottery, but writing is something that I will be able to do no matter what my financial or family status. I won’t put the computer down unless it breaks. Even if that happens, I used to use a little something called a pen, and I used to put that object to another handy object called “paper.”

The things one learns in school really can make a difference.

Nobody talks to me for more than a few minutes without realizing I’ve got more sarcasm in my pinky then most have in their entire bodies. But I shudder to think what my life would be like today if I hadn’t started to write. I’m not always going to write short stories or books. I can’t imagine I will always show my words to people. But I’ve made a few good friends along the way. People have read my words. More will read them one day, and I may even be able to make a decent living because of it.

Life seems to be split down the middle of chaos. On the one hand, I don’t make enough money at my current job to scratch my testicles. But on the flip side, I write because I have the time and the imagination to come up with the stuff. Real life might not be glamorous, but it offers me a chance to experience love, hate, anger, euphoria, and all the other emotions that I can pour with such realism into each and every one of my made up characters.

Fate doesn’t normally interest me. I like to think that I am always in control of my own life. These last few years have been like a huge dose of humble pie. I’m not powerless, but curious things do happen when I allow myself to engage in what matters to me. In the last year, people have come to me that I did not expect. People have read my words, and some have been able to relate. A special someone has danced their way into my life.

Philosophical discussions of fate either annoy or terrify people like me. Maybe that’s why fate sneaks up on so many of us. It probably happens despite everything I believe, and all I can do is the best that I can until God or the universe reveals my purpose.

Until that happens, I’ll write, I’ll love, and I ride on the roller coaster that is my life. I can’t be the fatalist, but I can sure as hell strap in. Let other people deal when someone releases the fucking Kraken. I’ll write a book about it when it’s over.

I’ve had to pull back to writing and posting something every two weeks. I think it’s working so far. I was able to come back to this latest installment with some fresh perspective. I wonder how it will change the direction of this serial. I hope you’re all as excited as I am.

Speaking of which, it is time for the mighty Zeke to get his bearings again after losing his way. I rather know how that feels.

Than again, sometimes those skin conditions can make you look like kind of a yeti in the morning, neh?

Read chapter 26 of “Unbreakable.” Celebrate more than half a year of crazy stuff written by yours truly. Enjoy it. Vote on it!  Spread the word too, especially if you enjoy monsters, people with incredible, untapped power, and children who may or may not have demonic relatives. I’m rather partial to this serial. I want others to enjoy it too.

There are times in my life when I wonder if the effort has all been worth it.

Waking up, suiting up, and showing up are all the proposed solutions to the problems of today’s “30 somethings” who struggle in today’s economy.

I don’t know how to sum up all the things that I have done and the things that I have yet to do in order to change that for myself.

Sometimes, after spending three hours dotting my “I’s” and crossing my “T’s” and watching my professional P’s and Q’s, I have to ask myself a couple of things:

1) – What’s with all the stupid advice involving single letters of the alphabet?

2)- Can I do this anymore?

I’ve got writing and editing to do yet today, and I’ve spent the better part of four hours coming up with a cover letter and revamping a resume, once more, for a job I dearly hope to get.

I need a break.

Still, it beats sitting around, biting my fingernails about the whole affair. I don’t have time for whining. I’d rather be winning.

I remember the blog post when I was about to declare myself in need of a separate blog. It didn’t take long for my girlfriend to scan my blog one day and point out to me that most of my last posts were about my writing projects. There was nothing personal written in any of them.

Most would have thought I was too busy to pick my head up and say hello to the rest of the world.  Most might still think that. It’s just a little bizarre to me that social networking could make my life’s moments an instant event to family and friends, and yet they can also keep people from connecting with each other in any real way.

The truth is life has been replete with change.

It’s a funny thing to be able to say that after I look in a mirror. I’m still short, and still devastatingly handsome. Well, the truth is I’ve gained some weight, but that might be because I’ve yet to get used to some changes in my routine, including eating habits.

I’m also still funny, though that comes in spurts.

I’ve been seeing someone for just over a month. She’s a belly dancer/modern dancer, grant writer, kickboxing superwoman who happens to like lynxes and be interested in the paranormal. She supports my writing as much as I support her dancing. Her intelligence and sensitivity can only be matched by her creative spark.

She’s also a babe.

Just last night, she geeked out with me. We watched the Robot Combat League on the Syfy channel while eating a dinner I cooked for us both and sipping on Blood Orange Smirnoffs. The apartment cat even came to sit with us. She’s trying to turn him into a “treat monster.”

Life was pretty close to perfect at that moment.

Some small part of me keeps waiting for the Gods to tell me she isn’t real, that she’s some sort of cruel hoax. That’s a dark part of me that I don’t always like.

The rest of me is happier than I’ve been in a long time.

Other things have happened, of course. I finally bit the bullet when it came to my first novel manuscript and I sent it to a publisher. I should consider sending it to others, but for right now, I’m still shocked that I went ahead and did it at all.

I’ve also begun the search for a new apartment and a new job.

I can sit here and preach all I want to about following dreams. When the itchy palms and the restless nights begin to consume me, I know it’s because I am doing things that are beyond my comfort zone. I have to accept that. Nobody can pursue their dreams without a great deal of risk.

Other friends of mine have moved on from their fears and frustrations to chase their own dreams. It takes a lot of work. I hope it’s worth it.

I’ve got a lot on my plate, as always. This isn’t even going to be a very long blog entry. But I promise you all one thing.

I’m alive.

P.S. Nobody beats an astronaut. Don’t ask.

Read.

Vote.

Enjoy!

Simple, right? You’ll have to create an account in order to vote for any or all of my 25 chapters.

Wait. that’s 25 chapters! In one more week, I’ll have half a year’s worth of work to show for my efforts. That’s more than 50K of words!

I like them apples, I really do. But I must announce that I will be scaling back the frequency of my posts.  The story is good. But life is full, and I have more projects to work on. I’ve submitted my manuscript to one publisher. There may be more where that came from, but I am so nervous about it I don’t know what to do with myself.

Plus there’s that pesky thing about wanting to write my sequel, and another book I’ve been working on for months.

Besides, my friends miss me, and there is a new special someone in my life who actually supports my work! HAH! Bonus points that she’s a beautiful, creative soul. Or maybe that’s one of the reasons it seems to be working.

God Bless beautiful Belly Dancers

Ahem.  I digress. Read, enjoy, and vote. With luck, I will see you all in another two weeks!!

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