A Little Past Monday
You know, I try to be punctual, but there was that holiday thing this past Monday and I went on a business trip with my brother this past weekend that was really cool, is entirely secret, and really wore me out. Six hours up and a shortcut on the way back that took an hour and a half longer! Grrrr. I should know better by now. Anyway, it was a two day trip, so I spent about 14 hours on the road and I really, really hate to travel. For me, these days, a long trip is fifteen to twenty minutes across town to the gym. I used to do a one way hour commute for years and, no, it’s no fun, I drove both ways, and, yes, it burned the driving bug out of me, at least until I get some kinda rockin’ sports car, but that’s gotta wait. One can’t write on the road.
So, that’s the reason why I’m derelict in my duty. I got back Sunday night and was a bit lagged out and spent Monday writing and sleeping intermittently which has totally thrown my entirely sleep schedule a bit out of kilter. With the last push of RunePunk done, I mean the reintegration of certain essential plot elements, the final refinements of societal elements, such as organizations and whatnot essential to the throughline, I am happy to say that my editor and layout folks can do what they must. If I write another word, I’ll write a hundred. There are more Savage Tales to be told within ScatterPoint, I assure your, but there comes a time when you’ve gotta let go.
So, as autumn approaches, I’m excited to be working on Agents of Oblivion. What better time to delve into horror?! The world around us begins its lazy spiral into a slow death, unconcerned too terrible much about the impending doom that is winter. People scurry about like squirrels collecting nuts. There is a sudden frenetic energy of activity as the storehouse is refilled and our atavistic nature urges us to prepare for the worst. The cold death that is winter. The cold death that kills those unprepared. These are the warnings that come upon the cool days of late summer and are amplified as autumn strikes. These are the warnings that go unheeded and, within the soul of every man, beneath the love and the laughter and the glad eyes, there is a fragment of fear, a concern that the cold death will come, that winter will embrace us, particularly, personally, and that the cold death will never end.
Man, I love fall, don’t you?