Who knows? I’m just one duck quacking into the void. It’s a fucked-up time in America, and I just think the best way through the darkness is to once more put our foot on the neck of ignorance and make it — not “conservative” or “liberal” — the dirty word.
I thought, “Mmm, macaroni and cheese.” I have a recipe I use, and lo, it is good. But then I thought, “What would make this recipe double-awesome? What would make this recipe do keg-stands on my taste-buds? Sausage.”
So, this is just a random coagulation of thoughts about price (and cost). These thoughts are not from an expert. They are from my addlepated monkey’s brain. They make no conclusions. I’m just as confused as the next chimp down the line.
It is not coincidental that the name of my book is BLACKBIRDS and that many of the dead birds are also blackbirds (or, at least, birds that happen to be black of feather). Why is that, you ask? I’m totally the guy killing all those birds. I’m really glad to have that off my chest.
When someone says “writer’s platform,” I cannot help but grind my molars together until I hear the crinkly, crunchy snap as my enamel cracks like punched glass. Still. As a buzzword, it’s got legs.
And in the bullshit of the buzzword, truth lingers. Let us tease it out with a tickle.
There it is. The book. A brick. A big block of words and dead trees, or a garish white screen of 1s and 0s comprising your asstastic prose. Your gut sinks. Palms sweat. This thing? It might as well be a football helmet filled with diarrhea. It’s got nothing of value to offer to the world. It’s a tangled briar of gibberish.