Letters to Myself

It might be just me, but this year just flew by. I mean, seriously. Ian is no doubt responsible for this, of course. He is a skilled distraction.

It was a good year for sales, but a lousy year for writing. Fiction, that is. I plan on fixing that, once we reach the other side of the arbitrary date divide that everyone agrees to observe so as to screw up people writing the date on their checks. Those people who're still using checks, of course. Not me. I conduct all my financial payments through couriers delivering American Eagle gold coins, plus the occasional Krugerrand. All the time. Pain in the ass at a vending machine, but I think it's worth it.

When next we meet, it will be...the future!