Texas is going well.
There's no snow, thank God. I never want to see snow again.
Books have not yet been fully unpacked yet. But we're getting there. A few more months should do it. We're almost done unpacking fiction. Next is nonfiction. The rest is my father’s “To be read” boxes — packed before he died.
Yeah. Dad’s been dead a year. It’s also been a really busy year.
I’ve been accepted into one anthology.
I have five books in the hopper.
Number five is nearly done—it will either be a sequel series called Honeymoon from Hell, or a continuation of Love at First Bite.
If you want, you can get a head start on Honeymoon from Hell over at my Patreon.
No, I don’t have a lot to say. I really am padding this blog out. It’s been a lot of work. It’s been writing books. It’s been buying replacement stuff … so much replacement stuff.
“Hey! Where’s the (artificial) Christmas Tree? Oh. We threw it out in New York. F***!”
“How did the movers break THE CORNINGWARE PAN! IT WAS IN THE MIDDLE OF THE BOX! NOTHING ELSE BROKE! How?”
“Why did this oven not come with a broiler pan?”
“What do you mean we have to buy X because prices go up in an election year?”
It’s gotten to the point where even thinking about grocery shopping pisses me off. I want to figure out if we can not buy anything for a whole month — books, food, anyway. Can we all stop spending money for four weeks?
No. Apparently not.
On the bright side…
Moving has been a great way to improve my social life. Hell, I have a social life? I’m actually hanging out with people. Multiple people.
Who knew?
Oh, wait, that was the point. I knew a lot of people here. It’s why I moved. But I can easily hang out with Moira Greyland, Who helped me move.
And Roy M. Griffis, who helped me move.
And John McNichol, who helped me move.
And Lori Janeski, who helped me move…
Yes, somehow, I ended up with a moving troupe that consisted entirely of writers. Huh.
It’s been a long 12 months. It’s technically not over yet.
But things are getting better.
Anyway, that’s all I got for today.
Don't expect to finish unpacking this year. Assume three or more years until you finally get to the last box, open it, and ask, "why did we bring this with us again?"
Moved from Texas to Arkansas about 18 months ago. I just opened the last box this week. And breakage, yeah, breakage. Don't get me started on the 'why did I move this? I didn't like/want/need it for the past decade, wtf did I move it 600 miles so I could donate it here?