I can't complain too much about the sudden lack of freelance work, since it frees me up to pursue my two favorite hobbies (writing humor & fiction, and drowning out my despair with drugs and alcohol), but seriously, my editors: do I smell? Okay, so I smell. Does my writing smell? Okay, so my writing smells. Buy it anyway. Last month you bastards ran me ragged, now: nothing. Fui.
Speaking of my smelly writing, I am in the process of finally doing something performance-related with my crypto-humorous writing; I still need to talk to rum_holiday and a couple of other people about the praxis, but the theory is ducks-in-a-row. Hooray, another quixotic and unprofitable artistic pursuit! I'll be the belle of the ball!
Meanwhile, my crappy novel collects dust on the hard-drive. Will I ever finish it? I dunno. But every day I don't work on it is a day that I begin to suspect it sucks like an Electrolux. Is that fear talking? Self-hatred? Laziness? I can't tell. And more time passes when the world is denied an overwritten, pointless novel about Superman punching God.
Still to come this very year of 2005: new Ludic Log entries (no, really); probably some live readings; a spankin' new issue of the High Hat for which I will take the editorial blame; the vague outlines of a comedic dynamo; and more updates on my attempt to sell a collection of short humor pieces and the subsequent claims by editors, publishers, agents and writers that "humor doesn't sell". Because really, who likes to laugh? Nobody.