With less than three weeks until doomsday, whether it be the predicted day where we all apparently see judgment (allegedly the 21st), or I turn thirty (unfortunately the 22nd), life goes on, for something or someone somewhere. I’m having a difficult time embracing the idea of walking away from my twenties, and I’m not exactly sure why. Maybe its because I don’t feel like I’ve accomplished “enough” or at least, checked some imaginary number of cool shit from a to-do list that I’ve never bothered to write down. But it’s there, this looming feeling of wasted time, and that’s a little depressing. There isn’t a whole lot I can do about that but move forward though, right? Right.
I’ve been having an odd number of conversations about moving away from where I am lately (count ’em, four, conversations with four different people) and from where I sit, I don’t really see the point. I actually investigated and examined the pros and cons of one move, and I just don’t think that I can bring myself to do such a thing. Everything is the same everywhere, except maybe temperature differences, and to be honest, the heat and I, we’re not tight. So, I think I’m bound to continue staggering on here in South Jersey a while longer, which isn’t the worst idea, I hope. I just wish I knew where my sunglasses were.
Warmed and Bound is coming along with a looming tentative release date (early this summer), a projected price tag, and the final version of the book cover coming down the pipe (expect to see it in the next couple of days), the race to finish copy-editing it is on like an over-sized digital gorilla tossing barrels. With that, the to-read pile has been sidelined, and that bugs me, but I have to finish combing over the stories for this book, so you fine people don’t hurt yourselves when you purchase and read the awesomeness that is Warmed and Bound. I don’t want to toot my own horn, here, but after reading through what I’ve read thus far, I must agree with the sentiments that a friend had about this book: “It’ll pre-crap your pants for you.”*
Once that’s over and done with, and the book hits online retailers (you’ll know all about where to get it soon enough), its back to the written word, and I so cannot wait to get back to it. I really want to finish Caleb J. Ross‘s Stranger Will. If you haven’t been following his Stranger Will Tour for Strange, you should. After that, I’ve got Fred Venturini‘s The Samaritan, Mat Johnson‘s PYM: A Novel, Nik Korpon‘s novella Old Ghosts, The Chonology of Water: A Memoir by Lidia Yuknavitch, By the Time We Leave Here, We’ll Be Friends by J. David Osborne, When October Falls by Christopher J. Dwyer, and Every Shallow Cut by Tom Piccirilli.
But that’s not all! I don’t have these yet, but really would (this part will come in handy if you love me and want to get me something to commemorate my thirtieth anniversary of being birthed) like In the Devil’s Territory by Kyle Minor, How They Were Found by Matt Bell, There is No Year by Blake Butler, You Can Make Him Like You by Ben Tanzer, iTunes gift cards, dumbbells, and money. Lots of money. All of the money.**
So, as you can see, there is plenty of room for reviews. Fear not, I haven’t disappeared or fallen victim to Blogorotha, eater of downtrodden bloggers (I’m really reaching now (For a point? Maybe (Read: Definitely))). I’m sure Stephen Graham Jones will have eighteen more books out before the end of the year, and we’re still waiting on whatever Craig Clevenger‘s been handling with his sweet-sweet-gentle-loving-God-I-miss-his-caress hands. And, hell, maybe I’ll even find out where my talent, focus, and inspiration went and bang out some more fiction here, eventually.
Don’t hold your breath, though.
Not because I don’t want to.
I just don’t want you to die. Mostly.
* This is a loose quote and I’m too lazy to check for accuracy.
** A few internets wouldn’t be bad either.