Yo blog tribe.
After my recent disappearing stint, I realized something.
I am completely obsessed and immersed in a writing career and novel that I set off seeking nearly three and a half years ago.
My creative writing lately hasn’t been much for “blog” “blah-g” or however one might refer to this tiny corner of Internet land I’ve claimed.
I sighed heavily last week reading about another drug-o getting signed on by one the biggest literary agents in New York City because he/she has adequately blah-ged enough about smoking dust and having loose sex.
That’s enough to get a book deal in this town.
So after throwing up in my mouth a bit at the news, I thought about something I had written recently and smiled. Then I smiled wider at being proud of my work, I think that’s important as an Artist.
My novel doesn’t belong in this particular medium, though I am busting to share chapters with our wondrous collection of cult.
wondrous 
adjective literary
inspiring a feeling of wonder or delight; marvelous
I wonder whose hands I’ll put my novel in first when it’s done. Regardless, I’m proud of it. Even if I never smoked enough dust to impress an Agent. I don’t need an Agent. This is because I already support myself full-time writing. I do it so well, in fact, that I live in a luxury building with a white-gloved doorman in mid-town Manhattan that I pay for all by myself, Waxman.
I can’t wait for you to read the novel fellow word lovers. I guess I just wanted to clarify that I’m not exactly hiding… I’m working my ass off and will continue to do so. After all, that’s why I came to this city. To write.
PS. Dear recently signed drug-o, it’s the game I can’t stand. Naturally, I love the players. Get money.