You know what time it is. It’s time to dip my ladle into the river of depravity, a river that draws miscreants and deviants to the shores of terribleminds, as ineluctable as the tides, as certain as my utter pantslessness. It’s for time for — *crash of thunder* *keening violin* *braying donkey* SEARCH TERM BINGO.
But one drinky-drink I’m not well-versed in is bourbon. Few times I’ve had it in the past I found it to be a lot harsher than Scotch — instead of smooth and warm we’re talking razors boiled in distilled water — but that tells me I’m just not drinking the right stuff.
Purely out of sheer amusement, I decided to compile the Top 20 posts of the year here at jolly ol’ terribleminds. Now, to be clear, between my three sources of reporting (WP_Stats, Google Analytics, CyStats), I get pretty wildly different numbers as to hits and views and what-not, but overall they seem to agree that these are the most viewed over the course of the last 365 days.
On New Year’s Eve, our way into the new year was with a whole lot of clamor and clatter. My Dad would, as was his way, fire off weapons. A shotgun in specific. As many pulls of the trigger as the coming year demanded, I suppose. CHOOM CHOOM CHOOM.
Your Authorial Mission Statement — by which I mean, your hot fresh tasty goal as a writer in the New Year — is — wait for it — waaaaait for it — “You will put yourself in there, and out there.”
“What the hell does that mean?” you’re asking me. “And isn’t that two mission statements?” Just — shh. Shut up. Relax. Don’t nag me.
Depending on who you listen to, you’ll find that self-publishing is either: a) The best thing since blowjobs and lip balm, or b) The worst thing you could possibly do (next to thrusting your private parts in and out of a badger’s mouth). Self-publishing is neither the next coming of Book Jesus, nor is it a self-inflicted perdition.