I don’t know why I’m so nervous about everything coming out this week, but I am. I’ve been trying to think of something to type here, but it’s literally just “Doot, doot, doot, hope I didn’t fuck anything up too much.”

Both things I was working on this weekend are, I think, about as done as they’re going to get in my present state of mind, but I’m going to sit on them until this evening before handing them over to the proper authorities, just to look through them one more time.

I also have a buttload of errands to run next weekend and I’m already stressed about how to get them all done.

I’ll be fine. I just want my work to be good. I want people to like it. I want the non-fiction stuff to honor the dead. I want the fiction stuff to entertain the stuffing out of you.

I just want the metaphorical skies to open up. That’s all.

Ha ha ha. Just work that Shackle Island magic again. That’s all I want. Ha ha ha.

Lord, when the most popular thing you’ve ever written is about a wide spot in a creek, you know you have a weird writing career.