Priorities… I Had to Get Me Some

I woke up one morning not long ago — maybe a few months or more back — to the realization that my health was more important than staring at a blank document page on my computer screen waiting for the words to burst forth from my forehead.

I was heavy.  I was not at all healthy.  I didn’t feel good physically.  I didn’t feel good about myself at all.  And I really wasn’t getting much writing done so much as I was just killing time, thinking, thinking, thinking while just sitting, sitting, sitting.

So, I’ve been working more on getting healthy again than on writing for some time now.  It’s rather hard to sit for long to write when you’re walking, jogging, lifting and preparing food that’s healthier than the stuff I used to grab from a bag or box and eat, and eat, and eat while sipping a soda and trying to get writing done.

I ain’t done.  My priorities have simply shifted from writing right now to being healthier so I can write more — and hopefully better — later on.  There’s time for this.  But time has a bad habit of running out for your health if you don’t make it a priority and stick to it.

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Southern-Fried Dark Urban Fantasy Served Here

I chucked everything I was working on into a folder on my backup drive and I’m going to forget all about that for a while. It’s time I decided to go at something different, even if just different for me.

So, what I’m going for is a more bad-ass dark urban fantasy kind of thing with a whole lot of crispy southern-fried flavor and a liberal smothering of noir gravy.

There’s a blank document page accusing me behind this one, a cursor impatiently blinking, waiting for me to start outlining a new story headed in a different direction from the one I was going in.

Will there be Vampires, werewolves, and demons?

Check, check, and check. But toss in a double handful of succubi, incubi, and jinn, too.

Sparklies, bare-midriffs, ripped bodices, or heaving bosoms?

Nope, nope, nope, and Oh, Hell NO! Ain’t nothing suave and sexy about sucking the blood out of living folks or dining on their innards. It’s more like thudding hearts and hoarse, choking screams and out of breath from running for your life.

God, Guns, and Guts? Hell YEAH! With grits. And a Rebel yell.

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