Some whine with your wine?

I’m not at my best when I have a cold. I’ll say so right up front.

And I have one. It inevitably happens when I travel a lot, which I’ve been doing – stuffed into an aluminum tube with several hundred feverish passengers, a third of whom are hacking and sneezing till hell won’t have it.

So that’s my excuse for not writing more blogs and being a big fat whiner today. In fact, for not writing much of anything lately. I’ve taken a week off, and plan to take next week off too before moving on to my next project – my second to last novel of the year.

With any luck I’ll also have all of December off, too. And then it all starts over again for 2016, only at a radically decreased rate. With something like 50 novels out by then, it’s not going to really change my fortunes if I have 54, or 58, by the end of that 2016. So I’m going with four to five releases next year.

Unless my super secret stealth project with a massive talent who shall go nameless gains traction and we get it done. But no pressure (yes, I’m squint eyeing you, and you know who you are). And no wagering.

In other news, Emerald Buddha releases Sept 29th. Black In The Box end of Oct. Rage of the Assassin end of Nov. So plenty to read between now and the year’s end.

New Year will mark four and a half years of self-publishing, and four of making a better than fair living at it. That still boggles my mind – that I get paid to lounge around in my underwear inventing stories (and I don’t mean doing my taxes). If there’s a better job for me, I don’t know what it is. I mean, I could think of a couple, but I’m pretty sure they don’t actually exist except in porn films.

So that’s all I’ve got. Whining about my frailty and hawking my crap. Same as ever. Least I’m consistent.