As the last lines of freshly applied ink dry on the final page of the third edition of Funky Porcini, I become clearly aware of something that has been ambiguously looming in the far recesses of my perpetually grinding consciousness. Are there any more stories in me, that I still want to tell? The sequentially-linear kind of stories that need to be filled with characters who interact with each other, move through situations that weave some kind of meaningful messages, then to conclude by reaching an impactual point that makes the entire journey worth having gone through in the first place. To which, echoes up from the dimly lit corridors of my deepest headspace . . . No. I have zero interest in ever going back down that road again. I literally bled myself into every single one of the series’ that I developed over the last three decades. No explanations. No excuses. No regrets. I created my books with the sole purpose of conveying deep, complex, and intentionally caustic stories that would be found interesting by readers who required something . . . different. That was all that mattered to me. Not huge numbers, or sales. Not popularity. Not acclaim. I couldn’t give a shit about all that crap. And, I’m damn content with everything that I did. Always will be. But, that was then, and this . . . This is now. And, I just can’t bring myself to find even the slightest interest in telling linear made-up stories about made-up characters moving through linear made-up circumstances, that eventually reach conclusive made-up endings. It all just seems kinda silly to me now.
I guess that’s what happens when you wake up one day, and realize it’s just not worth getting out of bed for anything less than unrestrained autonomy.