Awwww, Lame, We're Not Going

I'm A Very Good Storyteller; I Have A Lot Of Compassion For People. That's Very Useful For A Novelist. A Lot Of Novelists Are Snots. They're Just Mean People. I'm Not A Terribly Skilled Stylist, Nor Do I Want To Be. I Want A Lot Of People To Read One Of My Stories And Go, 'that Was Pretty Cool.'

Sitting Tight? Holing Up? Waiting For Answers? Those Are Things I'm Not Good At. Planning A Massive Attack Against Mechanical Geeky-like Things When I Was Already Furious And Itching To Kill Something? Piece O'cake

When Did They Start Coming After You?” “was It—was It After The Oil- Slick Hummer Crash?” The Gasman Asked Iggy Tentatively. My Eyes Widened. Oil-slick Hummer Crash? Iggy Rubbed His Chin, Thinking. “or Maybe It Was More---after The Bomb,” The Gasman Said In A Low Voice, Looking Down. “i Think It Was The Bomb,” Iggy Agreed. “that Definitely Seemed To Tick Them Off.” “bomb?” I Asked Incredulously.

I Read Some, And Then Visited With People Involved In This Curious, Exciting And Somewhat Misunderstood Sub-culture. I Met With A Fang Maker, Who Offered To Fit Me For An Exquisite Pair.

I Guess I Write Four Or Five Hours A Day, But I Do It Seven Days A Week. It's Very Disciplined, Yes, But It's Joy For Me.