Change is good, right? Now, I'm not talking about the kind that you stick in a vending machine to get a Coke back (or underpants, if you're in Japan: more on that later). I'm talking about the other kind of change.
For the last couple of years, I've called myself a published fiction writer. I mean, those three stories were up for sale. Some folks even paid good money for 'em. That made me real, right? I didn't go around hollering about it, granted, and it was a small inroad to make on the path to being a Real Writer, but it was progress. Was. Because, as of today, I'm back at square one. The publisher of those stories has closed up shop, and the rights have reverted.
I have to do some serious thinking about where I go from here. A blank slate means I can sort of start over, write any old thing I want. Doesn't even have to be smutty. I can take some chances. I can jump off a cliff onto a pirate ship with an appletini in one hand and a bazooka in the other. I can be a word ninja, a clairnaughtyent, a rainbow princess fairytale dominatrix!
I can be terrified.
Well, then. Changes ahead, for better or worse. What? You read through that whole whinge just waiting for me to talk about buying panties out of a vending machine in Osaka? Really? Fine. They were black.