Just tooling about on my PoD publisher’s website, reading the profiles of many writers while I attempt to socialize. So far I cannot form meaningful relationships, for every time I read a book’s summary, it either discusses its edginess and its meaning (as it lacks any vestige of originality). Perhaps I’m being too harsh, but I doubt it. I don’t know. I don’t care. Probably, people say the same thing about me, to my back, of course. But my back is above my ass, and that just means they have less to move later when they have to start kissing my ass.
Write well or die in a fire, my fellow hacksters and hackstettes. Dan Brown is looking up at you from Chthulu Hell–god hates you and Satan thinks you’re cute.