Two hands!

So, you may have noticed that there's been a distinct lack of content on this blog.  You are correct!  But it doesn't mean I haven't had my hands full of fiction!  Thing is, as I was doing the blog I constantly found myself wanting to be writing other things, so I let it fall by the wayside.  It didn't help that I wasn't really sure what the goal of keeping it was.  Is it marketing?  A chance to share personal stuff with friends?  A writers resource?  Public soapbox and diary?  Regular upkeep on a blog is a fair amount of effort and, these days, I put very little effort into something if I don't know exactly why I'm spending the energy.  I have far too much work to fill valuable time on side stuff.  So I stopped, thought about it, and have made a decision.  But, before I tell you, a little history first.

The road to becoming an established, known, financially stable author has never been paved.  Hell, I'm not sure it's ever been more than a dirt path, overgrown with thorns and the occasional marauding beast.  But, even so, in the past, the road was different.  Before the 80's, books were often prohibitively expensive to print.  Publishers took great care in making sure the books they put out were something that had an audience.  They didn't want to loose money on printing a bad book.  They did this (in sci-fi/fantasy/horror) by picking authors with audiences they'd established in the pulp magazines.  Authors had to mail typed manuscripts out, an expensive hurdle (one that often eliminated the casual authors), over and over to get into these magazines.  So, there was a gauntlet to run.  There was a standard to reach.  Publish with the magazines if you could, hope for fan reactions, and build a name for yourself.  Once you had one, a big book publisher might "graduate" you into the big league, and provide you with an editor and marketing.  As long as you kept writing you were "in".  There are plenty of authors who pulled this off in the 60's and 70's who are still "in" and producing fiction to this day.  It's a filter process that weeded out a lot of crap and forced people to improve to compete.

It doesn't work like that anymore.  In the 80's printing costs shifted and publishing a book became cheaper.  Publishing a magazine became more expensive.  The book publishing houses became the test ground, not the magazines.  Publish a small run, see how it does, if it fails, blacklist that author.  Rinse.  Repeat.  Hopefully, eventually one will "stick".  Then the rise of email took away financial barriers to having your work seen by these publishers.  They got buried in submissions.  Suddenly it was more financially viable to publish a book based on a video game, with a known audience, than it was to wade through the thousands of submissions that were, for the most part, only ever seen by the author before they went out.  And just when you think the crap landslide can't get any worse here comes the internet.  Anything anyone wants to say can be wrapped in a blog, webpage, or ebook.  The amount of writing out there is insane.  Literally tens of thousands of authors trying to be known.

So how do you climb to the top of that pile and get noticed?  Good writing?  No guarantee.  We've all seen awful bestsellers.  Flamboyant personality?  Sure, they get some attention, but in the end do they sell more books?  Honestly, I don't think there is one sure-fire way anymore.  That dangerous tiny trail that led to authorial success has branched into a dozen trails, in a swamp, with alligators.  So, what do I do?

It all comes back to this: why do I write?  For me?  For you?  For enjoyment?  For money?  How I answer that changes what I write and how I act.  So here's why.

I write because I love the ideas I come up with and want to share them.

So, with the goal of getting you the insane fiction that's in my brain, here's what's gonna happen.

• February 1st I launch a new website.
• I'll be regularly releasing mini-stories and a weekly serial novel on this blog.
• I'll be doing audio stories on Youtube with voice actors.
• I'll be posting pics of the things that inspire me to write, and my own photography, on Tumblr.
• I'm going to start doing public readings again.
• I'll be finishing up my horror story anthology and releasing it by Summer.
• I'll be starting my first novel as soon as the anthology is done.
• I'll be writing for Griot Enterprises working on the Horsemen and possibly Jigaboo Devil (can't wait!)
• Mostly, I'll be sharing these daydreams I love and seeing what you think.

I came to this decision a while ago.  I've got three months of content ready to launch.  Indeed I have been writing with two hands!  It's going to be a heck of a year.  I can't wait to see what you all think of it.

2012 Zombie Run! Braaaaaains!

So this weekend was the Run For Your Lives 5k zombie run.  What's a zombie run you ask?  Well, it's a 5k run in the woods, through streams and mud, with about a dozen obstacles thrown in and, you guessed it, zombies chasing you!  Lots and lots of them.

I went with my friend, Eric Cherry, for a much needed weekend away from work.  Of course, I choose to relax on the first vacation I've had since my honeymoon by being hunted down by zombies.  The event was on Saturday and they didn't have any camping available for the night before so Eric and I rented a tiny cabin in a campground nearby.  We did the whole campfire cookout thing (a relative first for Eric) and I actually saw tons of stars for, what I realized, was the first time in ages.  You forget how you can actually see the Milky Way living in a place with so much light interference.  We also valiantly fended off some greedy racoons who thought they could climb up on our picnic table with us.  A few well placed rocks convinced them their plan was folly.  Those are our cheddar brats, thieving bastards!  I finished off the evening by making s'mores with dark chocolate and coconut flavored marshmallows.  It was like a tropical s'more and went perfectly with my sangria!  I am a culinary genius.

After the soapiest tasting biscuits and gravy ever (yes, soapy, not a typo) we headed to the event.  Hundreds of people there, races happening in waves, tons of people covered in mud and fake blood.  We weren't scheduled to run until 2 so we setup our tent, milled around, and ran into my friend Megan and a couple of her friends.  While chit-chatting, we looked up and saw... this...

Yes, it's what you think it it.  A freaking circle around the sun rainbow!  Clearly a sign of the apocalypse.  So, the whole event stops and everyone is looking up at the sun, freaking out, and then... It turned into a DOUBLE CIRCLE AROUND THE SUN RAINBOW!!!*  The second ring was too far out to photograph without a landscape camera, but it was there.  Absolutely amazing.  It lasted a bit more than 10 minutes.  I'm pretty sure I got super powers and will begin to mutate any time now.

So, Eric and I line up to start.  We've got three flags on our belt.  The goal is to keep them.  Three lines; Appetizer, Entree, and Dessert.  We decided we were Entrees.  We run through a fog machine tunnel and we're off!  First thing; thigh deep water and sand.  Then zombies.  Then more zombies, and more, and more.  It was here, about a quarter mile in, that we realized that none of our training (practicing running at a normal speed) was worth much of anything.

This isn't a race.

It's a series of dodging sprints.  Over, and over, and over.  The zombies only chase you so far, so the thing is, dodge and run past to a safer area, then walk and recuperate, rinse, repeat.  Some of the zombies only reach or lunge and go after you for a half dozen steps or so.  Some of the bastards will run full speed and chase you.  Far.  Like, hundreds of feet.  Possibly to the next (well rested) zombie who will do the same thing.  Basically, you never know which ones are which, so at any point you're running like a madman into, ahem... more zombies.  Absolutely nuts.  Survival is significantly luck based.  If you're lucky enough to go when a group goes, and they don't spot/chase you as often as normal, you might survive.  We were hearing numbers like 1 in 8 and 1 in 10 were making it with a flag left over.  Thinking back, we passed/dodged at least 250 zombies.

None of the obstacles presented me with much of a challenge.  Turns out, even in my old age I'm pretty damn spry.  I can still hurdle barricades, flip over rope walls, and crawl at full speed without difficulty.  Even running the distance wasn't a biggie.  Keeping your flag safe when you've got to run through 12 zombies and they see you're the only one with a flag; that's difficult.  I pulled it off a bunch of times, outrunning guys half my age on several occasions.  At one point a half dozen were after me, as I was running and spinning at top speed I rebounded off of a tree, fell on my back, did a backwards somersault, got up, and kept running/twisting until I was clear.  They didn't get my flag.  Some lady who saw it said that they were an inch from grabbing my flag for 30 straight seconds but it was just barely out of reach.  Eric saw me fall and thought "Ahh well, they got him." and isn't quite sure how I somehow appeared 100 feet away with my flag intact.  I blame the double circle around the sun rainbow for kicking in some serious dodge superpowers.

In any case, they did eventually get all three of my flags.  There was only one group of zombies after the bunch that got my final flag, so I made it about 95% of the way.  Eric did pretty damn good as well.  He lost his first two flags in the first mile, but somehow managed to keep the final one up until about 75% of the way through.  Also, Eric screams like a girl when Zombies chase him.  I'm not kidding.  He squeals and runs in a really embarrassing manner.  I mean, half the participants were women and they weren't screaming like Eric.  But, he did make it pretty far so maybe there's something in his technique.

The last obstacle was a really long monkey bars over a pool of fake blood.  I cheated and instead of going arm over arm, I climbed up and crawled across.  Final time was 1 hour, 18 minutes.  When I was finished they gave me this medal!

There's a whole bunch of pictures of the event on the Run For Your Lives Facebook page, HERE


The rest of the night was lounging in lawn chairs listening to the bands they had on stage.  Most were meh, one was really good.  Pretty chill nice way to end the day.

So what did I learn?  Practice more sprinting.  Work in groups.  Wear knee-pads.  That I can make Eric pet a goat.

I'm absolutely going next year.  Who's with me?


*Note:  Internet etiquette states that full caps are allowed in the event of awesome things like double around the sun rainbows.

Facts Matter as a Matter of Fact

So, three times in a week.  Three times in a single week I've seen some glaring examples, from people in my radius, of something very disturbing; confusing facts with opinions.

A customer came in and, as I usually do, we got to talking.  He asked how my business was going and it led to discussion about the economy.  During the course of our talk I'd point out things that were true about our country, things that can be measured, counted, observed, verified, and are in no way shape or form subject to interpretation, and he'd respond with; "Well, that's just your opinion.".  But... it's not.  Economic disparity is there, wage stagnation is there, illegal employment is there, and outsourcing is there.  It can all be shown.  Clearly.

So here's a neutral example; the fact that Forte' is surviving as a business despite a recession isn't an opinion.  It's a fact.  I can count how much money I need to make it.  I can count how much money I made.  I can see that one is larger than the other and make a declaration that is TRUE.  Now, will this always be the case?  Hopefully, but I didn't say Forte' would survive forever.  I said it's surviving, and there is no denying that.  To argue against truth is fundamentally idiotic.  It is to argue against reality itself.  If I put a box on a scale, and it says it weighs 10 pounds, you can't really argue it's not a 10 pound box.  Okay, maybe you can say the scale is wrong and we weigh it with another scale.  Again, 10 pounds.  Eventually, if it IS 10 pounds, you can't logically argue that it isn't.

Now, we could argue about why the fact exists.  He may believe Forte' does well as a result of divine blessing and I may believe it's a result of hard work.  We can argue that under different political leadership I'd be doing better or worse.  We can argue about how the box got to be so heavy.  But central to the argument is the fact.  Until there is agreement on reality, discussion about reality cannot exist.

Yesterday in Wisconsin the Governor repealed an Equal Pay law.  The Senator who sponsored/created it came out today and said that there is no such thing as gender discrimination, that it's a myth.  The problem is, that can be checked.  Women nationally make, on average, 20% less than men doing equivalent work.  This can be checked, verified, counted.  It is true.  Now, he could have come out saying he didn't care, or he didn't believe the reason they made less was sexism, or any other argument about why that fact shouldn't matter enough to create a law equalizing women, but what he can't do, logically, is deny that it's happening.  It's happening.

It's the same thing with climate change.  It's happening.  Why is up for some debate, but not the fact that it's happening.  The economic recovery.  It's happening.  Debate why, but you can't deny it.  Women's rights are being diminished.  It's happening.  Count the number of laws presented now compared to the past.  Easy to check.  The military budget is still the biggest expenditure of our country.  True.  Can't truthfully say it's something else.

There have been more instances of politicians calling facts opinions than any other time in recent American history (fact). This trend is infiltrating from out out of our politics and into our general culture (opinion).  I think the growing inability to recognize, accept, and deal with reality is a pretty big problem.  Massive even.

You can't make facts go away just by saying they're not true.  You have to face them, decide what you think about them, analyze how they came about, and set your future course based on your observations.  You can't play ostrich and put your head in a hole, cover your ears, and ignore it.  Well... you can, but you're not playing in reality any more.  You're off in your own little world based on things that aren't true.  And where are we going to wind up if we've all got blinders on, willfully seeing only what we want, not what is real?

So the question is, even if you don't like it; can you handle the truth?


Oh, and in case you were curious.

fact: [fakt] noun

1. something that actually exists; reality; truth: Your fears have no basis in fact.

2. something known to exist or to have happened: Space travel is now a fact.

3. a truth known by actual experience or observation; something known to be true: Scientists gather facts about plant growth.
opinion: [uh-pin-yuhn] noun

1. a belief or judgment that rests on grounds insufficient to produce complete certainty.

2. a personal view, attitude, or appraisal.

3.the formal expression of a professional judgment: to ask for a second medical opinion.

Lets Fight!

So I was talking to Eric about the fantasy story he's (still) working on and the topic comes up about fight scenes.  He tells me he's been having issues working through them because, in general, he finds fight scenes to be dull affairs.  At first, this would seem not to make sense.  After all, if you've ever been in a fight, or close proximity to one, they're anything but dull.  Fantasy, Sci-fi, Action, even Horror all have a pretty big dose of fighting to add drama and excitement to a story.  But that's just the first impression.

When I actually stop to think about it, most of the fight scenes I'm recalling were things I've seen on a screen, not read in a book.  A blow by blow martial arts fight, with details, is incredibly tedious and, at the end of the day, it's much more exciting to watch someone do a back-flip face kick than to read about one.  I frequently hear this complaint from people that they don't like particular action movies because "it was just a bunch of fighting".  So if a fight scene on screen, where it only takes moments and you actually get to see the physicality, is boring, how do you make writing one interesting?  I've got a couple of ideas.

First of all, I think its important to only actually describe a fight when it matters.  Fighting guard #6 on your way to the top of the evil wizard tower?  Perhaps you gloss over that as quickly as possible.  There is no significant difference between guard #1 and guard #10.  They all have equivalent meaning.  Now, when your protag gets to the top of the tower and meets up with the wizard, we expect a fight.  Why?  Well, there's the assumption that the wizard and the hero are proportionately matched so the outcome might be in doubt.  Unlike the guards.  There is little chance guard #8 will luck out and defeat the hero.  Sorry guards, you are just there as an example of the hero's proficiency.  Generally, we know what the villain can do.  Somebody's gotta be a punching bag to show that the hero also has chops.  This is why guard is a bad career choice.

Now, I'm aware that I'm talking in very simplistic hero vs. villain terms and good stories aren't that simple.  But that's up to plot, character development, etc... to solve.  I'm just talking about the straight up fighting side of things.  For that, all you really need is two people (or groups) in opposition.

We also expect a fight when the hero comes into conflict with the main villain because that's where plot turns happen.  If the hero wins, the villain has to alter their course.  If the villain does, the hero must change plans.  Moments when these main characters come into conflict divert the story direction.  Guards are speedbumps.  They might slow a hero down, but they're not going to alter the course of the story.  We don't care about serious details on speedbumps, but when we change direction, the whole thing moves somewhere else, well, that's worth some detail.

So, rule one of writing fighting; Only bother with serious detail when it's significant characters involved and the results move the story into a new direction.

So that's when to detail, but it still doesn't tell us how to make a bunch of traded blows exciting.  I've gotten several compliments on my fight scenes so it seems I'm doing something right, intentionally or not.  So went back and looked at every fight scene I've ever written to see how I've handled them.  I discovered something really interesting.  I have, never, ever, written a fight scene under normal conditions.  I have land bound guys fighting opponents who can fly.  I have people fighting someone invisible.  I have someone fighting someone poisonous, super fast, invulnerable, blind, or multi-limbed.  I have fights in knee deep mud, on cliffs, or ice.  In every single scene I've ever done, the protagonist has to deal with something else in addition to the opponent.  Something that makes it more than just two guys hitting each other.  Something that makes them think or have to behave differently.  I immediately started looking for examples of this in movies and other writing and, lo and behold, this happens a lot.  From Errol Flynn fighting the Sheriff of Nottingham on a staircase all the way up to a ridiculously outnumbered guy fighting with only a hammer in Oldboy, it generally improves a fight scene. 

So, rule two of writing fighting; Add something else to the fight to make it abnormal.

I'm sure there are plenty of other things that can jazz up a fight scene, but these two should be sufficient to, at very least, keep your reader from nodding off or skipping past your fight scenes.  I leave you with the best fight scene ever made.  In this example it follows rule #1 by being the climax of the story and follows rule #2 by being absolutely freaking ridiculous, over the top, cheesy.

Happy fighting!

My Bottles

I love bottles.  Mostly glass bottles, although others types can win my fancy.  I like them tall, short, round, or fluted.  I particularly enjoy them in colored glass or with unusual lips or shapes.  Handles and stoppers are a bonus. 

I have an unreasonable love of bottles.  Just ask my wife, she'll tell you.  I have several boxes I refuse to part with in the basement.  I'm building a wall of bottles in the Forte' workshop.  I feel a real pang of loss when I see even so simple a thing as a bottle of Two Buck Chuck in the trash.  It is not unusual for me to find myself in a resale shop, trolling the kitchen areas, picking out rectangular bottles of blue glass, or little round clear oil and vinegar bottles, or perhaps, something with a fat bottom in smokey grey.    My fish tank has colored glass bottles in it, under-lit through the filter plate and gravel.

I may be a bottle addict.  I've come to terms with this.  I'm in recovery, of sorts.  I still want to bring the empty bottles of wine home from restaurants Jill and I go to, but I don't ask for them anymore.  I may not be able to carry them to the trash myself, but I can allow it to happen without too much fuss.  I no longer... well... I don't often buy alcohol based solely on the attractiveness of the bottle anymore.  Recovery!  I'm getting better.

But what is it about the whole bottle thing anyway?  Why on earth am I such a freak about it?  I think I can tell you.

Bottles are mysterious.  Especially bottles with no labels.  They've got this feeling about them that they could contain... anything.  Something delicious, smooth, sweet.  Or perhaps poisonous.  They might have something old, strong enough to make your chest burn and your eyes water.  It might be fizzy.  All these, flavors, tastes, and sensations, are modified, the moment you first taste them, by the container they're poured from.  If I pour you a tiny glass of something from a jug with an xxx on the side, you'd expect it to taste like turpentine and pack a whallop.  If I pour something from a long slender green bottle into a glass flute, you'd expect crisp, light, airy. 

The bottle is the expectation.  And, like so much of life, expectation is often better than reality.  An empty bottle captures this sensation of hopeful excitement almost perfectly.

When I was about fifteen I was out in the woods.  Hours from anywhere, not lost, but just wandering, no idea where I was.  When the time came to go home I'd head East and eventually hit the highway, take it North, and make it back.  But at the moment, I could not tell you where I was.  I'd been following a dry creek bed for over an hour, all rocks and overhanging bushes.  It was quiet, the tree canopy was split by the dry waterway and light kept pouring down from the left leaving crisp bright spots on the stones, and cool shadows on what would have been the banks.  I saw this weird greenish-white reflection slithering on the bank, about fifteen feet from any light.  Using my hand to make my own shadow, I was able to track it back to a cleft between two of the creek stones and there, at the bottom, was a bottle, catching the sunlight and throwing it around.  I took it out.  The thing was tiny, about five inches long, body shaped like a coffin.  It was actually white but dried algae had given the reflection a green tinge.  It had clots of dirt inside it, and looked like it was, impossibly, full of marbles.  It looked old.

As it had caused me to stop, I looked around, wondering where it might have come from, and noticed something odd.  A bunch of the rocks on the bank were straight.  Too straight.  Leaving the bed I discovered the foundations of an old mill.  I found a hand dug well and several other old building foundations.  It was all so overgrown I could have walked right through and never noticed it.  I spent about an hour, poking around.  Trying to determine what building was what.  Imagining what life there must have been like.  A tiny American ruin, discovered on a reflection.

I still have that bottle.  I don't know what it originally had in it.  There's no way I'll ever know.  I don't know who owned it.  Or who threw it into a creek by the mill, a creek long since dried and dead.  I can't even say how old it is.  I'll never know these answers.  But I do know what it has in it now.  It's the same thing as all my bottles.

My bottles hold daydreams.

Image Inspired Mini Story #15

"He's sleeping with my wife, Tom, I know it."

Tom scratched his blonde hair and scrunched up his face. "Oh... I dunno, Mikey. I don't think Rick would do that to ya."

Mikey pulled on one of his galoshes. "Oh yeah? Why's that? It's not like we're best pals or something. We just work on the same slice is all. Doesn't exactly make us brothers."

Tom picked up his pickaxe and passed Mikey his pry-bar. "Sure, but that don't mean he's gettin' with your lady."

Mikey stood up. "Well, she's getting with someone. I can tell. All these errands, visits to friends I never met, more perfume than usual. It's happening. And that bastard Rick is rubbing it in my face."

"How so?"

The two men headed up to the plate, tools on their shoulders. "You've heard him, going on about his 'hammer'. How nothing can resist it. He gives me looks when he says it, does this thing with his eyebrows."

They climbed the ladder, slipped down the rim, and splashed into the juice. "He's got a power tool and we don't. He's just showing off."

"No." said Mikey, "It's more than that. I swear, one time I could smell his cologne on my pillow. Not the case, but in the pillow. And Sue had just changed the sheets the day before, but there they were, changed again. You know what that means!"

"She likes laundry?"

Mikey stopped at the rind and looked at his friend. "I don't even know why I talk to you sometimes."

Tom shrugged. Sinking his feet into the soft side of the slice he climbed up to his work station. Mikey followed, using the same hand and footholds. They got to the top and walked along the ridge. Rick was there waiting, leaning on his yellow jackhammer.

"Mornin' fellas!"

Tom smiled. "Mornin' Rick."

Mikey didn't say anything.

"You guys ready for some hot and heavy pounding today? Get ourselves a little pro-duck-tivity bonus?" Mikey grit his teeth and climbed up past him. Tom pulled on gloves, hefted his pickaxe.

"You just break it up, we'll pull em out."

"Good, good. I really need the cash. I've got something special planned. I already loosened those three so you can start there." He pointed at three of the big dark oval shapes. Mikey didn't say anything, just kept climbing toward the top one and got to work.

One good thing about the job; it was great for getting out frustrations. Mikey smashed and poked the red pulpy ground with all the anger he could manage. Over and over, he drove his long metal bar along the edge of the seed, until it was deep enough for him to pull on, leveraging it out, where it would topple down the slice to the recovery crews. It was hard work, laborers work, but there was good money in seeding.

He'd almost managed to forget about his problems by early afternoon, caught up in the task, when he heard the sound of a jackhammer almost directly below him. Peering around the smooth seed, he could see Rick, not paying attention to where he was. He should know better. Anyone beneath one of these babies when they went would be crushed instantly. He opened his mouth to call out, to warn him, and stopped.

The memory of cologne on his pillow blotted out the overwhelming watermelon stink. He knew that chances like this didn't come often.  He dug the pry-bar in, his mind made up.  He heard Tom call his name. 

Mikey ignored it and pulled hard.

Creatures I've been attacked by...

For anyone who was ever interested (and I know you all are) here is a list of creatures that have attacked, tried to inflict damage, bitten, clawed, swatted, or poisoned me.

Dog (domestic and wild, small and large, bites, blood)
Cat (domestic, venomous scratch, bite, blood. ~yes people, cat claws are venomous, look it up)
Hamster (bites, blood)
Wild Rat (attempted bite, multiple times, different rats)
Rabbit (bite, blood)
Turkey (female-multiple, pecked, a lot...)
Dogface Pufferfish (bite, blood)
Iguana (bite, whipped with tail)
African Monitor Lizard (attempted bite)
Squirrel (threw nuts and sticks at me, may have been playful)
Anole Lizard (bite, no damage, they're tiny)
Lionfish (spines, poisoned, and bite, bastard.)
Cow (chased, more than once, different cows.)
Bull (attacked a bus I was riding, touched his horn waving my arm out the window to annoy him)
Goose (chased and pecked)
Crows (multiple, dive bombed, pecked)
Macaw (bitten, blood, she started it)
Pincer Crab (clawed)
Tiger (knocked me down, jumped on me, rubbed sharp tiger teeth on my neck)
Bullfrog (bite, unusually cranky)
Sea Anemone (stung, poisoned)
Wasps (stung, many species, many times)
Spiders (bitten, many species, many times)
Bees (stung, many species, many times)
Cottonmouth (attacked, chased, didn't like being poked with stick)
Polecat (bitten, blood)
Undetermined snakes (attacked, chased)
Goat (rammed, also cranky)
Freshwater Stingray (stung, poisoned)
Zebra Moray Eel, Picasso Triggerfish, and other various fish (bite, no damage)

Lovebird (bite, blood, misunderstanding)
Women (bite, claw, scratch, punch, kick, tear out heart, etc... very dangerous, approach with caution)

I think that's everything.  I'll amend the list if more things come to mind, or if more things attack me. 

It is also important to note that despite several VERY close encounters I am, evidently, not offensive to skunks.

Skunks: They dig me.

Back Around

So I've managed to get out from under work long enough to re-tool this here blog so it's a bit less ominous, write a few things so I'm ahead of the game, and figure it's time to get this ball rolling again.

Where have I been?  Well, that frame shop thing I was working on has turned out quite well and has been kicking my ass with orders since November.  It's finally slowing down a bit so I can get back to some of the life I used to have.  You know, doing actual creative things once in a while.

I can't guarantee this blog won't fall off the face of the earth next November when the orders for the holiday start pouring in again, but with any luck I'll be able to keep it on life support.  Cross your fingers.  Here we go again.