It’s Thanksgiving, y’all. Though a good part of me refuses to believe that to be the case and assumes I’m the victim of some grand illusion where it’s really the first week of November. ENJOY THE LARF, JERKS.
Point is: no real post today except to say I am a thankful motherfucker. I’ve got a good life. My family rocks. Our new dog is a delightful dumdum. I’ve got a writing career for the foreseeable future. I’ve got you people — the ones who come here and the ones who read my books (and the crossover in that wonderful Venn diagram). Frankly, this life I have doesn’t properly exist without you.
No, not you. You stay over there in your corner. Put a shirt on. And stop molesting that pumpkin pie.
So: to all my readers: a heaping helping of gratitude ladled upon your head like so much gravy.
And to all the writers I know: you kick ass. You inspire. Keep on keepin’ on.
Now I’m gonna go do some calisthenics do get myself in prime-time turkey-gobbling shape.