I didn't really intend to come back at all. The blog had shifted, and I felt (and still feel, in some ways) a relic. Instead of a literature-y blog where Met did an occasional music thing, it seems we've now a music-y blog where I do an occasional literature thing. And this is working better.
I toyed with the idea of retiring. That didn't pan out.
It's November second now. At the moment, I have 1842 words written for my NaNo novel. I don't know if I like it yet, but I hope you would. I won't post it, of course, and it will starve any writing from me here, I bet. But I am writing. I don't have the entire picture, but I see bits clearly.
It's about Michael. Michael, Bekka, Gabe. The Angels I've written about before.
I think the Apocalypse is dead, and that's okay. I learned from it, and I think we all had fun. In the end, though, Red was too alone. I don't have the will to continue until that's ended, and as a character he's flat. Green had more character, and he was in all of four chapters.
I'm a novelist now. My real works are big (and too commercially minded) for this. Sorry. What I can offer are short stories, or my old "name" shorts, from which Michael was born. Maybe a poem or two. Thoughts, of course.
So let's try again, eh?
I posted this over Met's post. Read that too. And comment. We like comments.