Well, I’m thinking about what to get addicted to. I have to get addicted to something first, you know, and hit rock bottom hard. That’s the first step in my campaign to ascend to the upper echelons of writerdom.
The drug memoir is a smart move. Jerry Stahl had Permanent Midnight, Wurtzel had her Prozac thing going, this Frey guy is blowing up with his crack smoking journal, and J. Carroll did the heroin bit to perfection.
And, most of these books get the romanticized cinematic treatment, wherein the drug use is incredibly fun for the first sixty minutes, before the inevitable descent into pathos and pain, and "oh, gee, I can’t believe I’m making gay porn in front of my neglected children while my eyes are bleeding due to my tear duct heroin injection techniques."
So, Costco’s got crates of Robitussin DM on sale right now. My credit card limit just got bumped up. Magic in the making? Maybe.
Writer news? Well, there’s a very exciting contract on the table for Siren Promised, but I can’t divulge the details until I put the ink to the paper. I can say that Siren Promised may be my first book to see deluxe hardback treatment, which is a kind of special and significant joy to me.
Danimal12 from Bisby asks why I don’t swear in my journal entries (his perplexity stemming from the pervasive presence of vulgarity in many of my short stories).
Well, Danimal12, I have a simple answer. This website, much like the Wu-Tang Clan, is for the children.
Keep it crunk, children. Keep it crunk.