In all honesty, they’re not novels, not yet–if that makes any sense. I need to do a better job of selling myself–so my vaunted superiors think–so instead of working in the salt mines, I thought I’d remind our dear readers that I’ve already published a pair of books, and more are on the way. I hope none of that came across as facetious. I can’t really seem to help it. I read into these things too much.
Anyways, my most recent publication is a work entitled Goliath Thunder: Sacrifice, a collection of four short stories, one of them really more a novella, which detail the ups and downs and joys and miseries comorbid with the soldier’s life in a long off century, “sacrifice” being the attendant theme. It’s good. You should read it. There’s a lot of giant robots, titillating violence, and the sort of sweeping illustrations that required long hours with the editor before we deemed them appropriate for publication. (Linky)
Its immediate predecessor is a rather shorter work entitled “Sagas of the Iron Hearts: Fragments,” my first publication. It is also a collection of four short stories that occur within the same universe as Sacrifice, but they are rather shorter in nature, more appropriate to a quick read on the bus or before bed rather than in the long hours of a rainy Sunday afternoon. (Linky, Linky2)
Anyways, I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion from our regularly scheduled programming. They say you have to hustle to be successful in your own career, and they’re not far from the truth. In fact, I just tend to forget. There’s always more work to do.
Weekly thoughts: Creative types do have a well-deserved reputation for ostentation. Writers are no exception to the rule. They can’t help talking about themselves, amusing themselves and virtually no others with petty jokes about the realities of their trade. While I’ve seen people with office jobs sometimes wax similar, it frankly has more to do with the inability to sleep and the similar inability to function in the morning without the caffeinated libations. Honestly, it’s not the writing itself that seems so compelling to me. It’s being your own boss and suffering the consequences therein. When all the work comes down to your own responsibility, when your ability to put food on the table is wholly yours, all decisions and all labors take on an entirely new dimension. It’s not because I go to sleep too late that I don’t get enough sleep; it’s because I can’t help my mind wandering to all my many obligations. I used to go to bed thinking about what I’d write next. Now I can’t stand the thought; I’d rather struggle with that under the light of our lonely star and give myself the glory of oblitum for the evening.