I wrote an autobiography in 2004.
(There are three sentences worth reading in the whole thing.)
I was still broke and without internet after finishing that, so I wrote a trilogy. I published the first book, The Monster’s Daughter, in 2011.
I intended to publish the other two, but then I read them.
No. Just no.
I don’t have enough lifetime to waste editing them.
(Seriously, I’d need a thousand years apiece. I’d do better rewriting them!)
I’ve written a fifth book since. That novel’s first draft is better than The Monster’s Daughter‘s final draft. Despite that, I’m not editing it. I’m not interested.
Another half-dozen books whirl around my brain these days. Despite their insistence, I’m not writing them. I’m not interested.
For now, I’m content to blog and know I’ve fulfilled the writing maybe-someday that once mattered most to me: I wrote a book.
The rest is gravy.
For anyone who ever asked what happened to Joey, highlight below to see the short version:
He’d become a vampire. Ginny, not actually dead, killed his not-so-friendly vampire incarnation. Then, for added giggles, Wendy became a vampire and Ginny had to kill her, too, for I am a cruel bastard.
Don’t like these outcomes? Awesome. I welcome you to imagine your own, which I fully endorse as authentic. The real ending for me–the one in my heart–is much kinder than the one I wrote earlier with my hands.