This will be my last post for the next week and a half; in a few hours I'll be heading south to the shore of New Jersey (the foreign homeland of my foreign girlfriend) for a much-needed vacation, one that will quite literally be sans-fil.
In my absence, please drool over this cover art my girlfriend's little brother made for one of my short stories:You may be asking yourself: "Hold on. Is that a cowgirl? Firing a plasma cannon? At a werewolf?" The answer to all three of these questions is an emphatic yes. The artist has captured the spirit of my work completely: see how the werewolf smiles at the promise of destruction? See how the cowgirl grins wickedly at the promise of the promise of destruction?
These are the things about which stories are written.
I'm hoping to have my PIC (that's partner-in-crime, for you squares out there) illustrate some more short stories of mine when I'm down in Jersey. The beautiful thing about ten-year-olds is that they can see the divine light of glorious truth, the Being of Being, that illuminates the world--without miring it in the awful exigencies of "taste," "self-consciousness," "pretense," and et cetera that adults so struggle with. Whereas editors and contempories might call me a fool for writing this kind of pulp, my little friend has produced something that captures the magic, whimsy, and genius of this fantastic lark.
And that makes all the writing worthwhile.
Oh, and did you notice how he not only deftly illustrated the tale, but furthermore developed a tagline for? "Comedy, thriller, and cool." Yes. That is the kind of story I write. All those things, together. Like beer, Skittles, and sunlight.
Take care, oh audience. I forsook you not; I grammar you yes. Consider this, our time apart, as merely a rejuvenation of the tender relationship we so genially share.
Oh, and before I go, allow me to quote, in both jest and braggadocio, that paragon of modern virtue, the Snookster: "I'm going to Jersey shore, bitch!"
Pardon, this once--in the name of decency and good taste--my employment of the cussin'.