Obligatory Mark Twain Picture. Used to falsely associate myself with literary greatness. Plus, I too, have a mess of white hair that doesn’t play well with others.

I’ve spent considerable time on this blog, not only writing a fulsome, scurvy heap of odd things, like this long-form essay about Billy Squier’s meteoric fall from musical grace, and use it basically try to foment discord, distrust, and division between you and your fellow man, and the fact that many times, advice for those on the vertical march can be sabotage disguised as philanthropic hopes.

But that’s me and my general cynicism talking.  At least the article is funny, which is usually half of my goal.

Also, I’m probably a bad person.

I’ve also spent time reading the blogs I follow, and while my Facebook page has transmogrified from “a place to stay in touch with friends” to a vile, leaking malodorous colostomy bag of socio-political and interopersonal contempt in just a few years, my Blogging stream is generally devoid of politics and angst-ridden ruminations.  This is also code for “boring,” in the most general sense of the word.

I’ve also watched writers go from “burgeoning” to “Stratospheric” in a few years, and I happened to be there at the beginning, cheering them on.  Plus, we have signed first editions. privileged little twits that we are.

So now, it feels like it’s my turn.  This idea–this story arc–this narrative with a twist, mystery, paradox, conundrum and whatever else–is rolling out at a rate I didn’t expect.

One of the counterintuitive things I’ve seen work for many novel-writers, is to share rough swatches of their work on the blog–granted, not enough to ruin, spoil, desiccate, or metabolically-destroy the originality, form or idea, but to maybe generate even the slightest bit of buzz.

I’ve decided I will do this.  Tomorrow. High noon.  Be there, Alexander Hamilton. I’m tired of your smack-talk.  And tell that Lin Manuel-Miranda guy I’ve got some sweet flows to spit at him later.