I think I’m tired of people telling me to write a novel. Nope. I’m positive I’m tired of it. I thought I wanted to for a while. It just seemed like the sensible course of action from as far back as grade school. That’s what writers do, yes?

I’ve figured something out. My mind doesn’t work that way. It isn’t fun. It makes no sense to me. It just makes no goddamn sense.

I just want to play. I want to build a lego castle with words and then stomp on it with big, heavy boots. That’s fun. I want to stuff a bunch of letters and words into water guns and have a water gun fight. I could drive around neighborhoods at night and smash mailboxes with a story. THAT would be awesome.

But a book?

Not so much.

Carefully flowing from one ingeniously conceived concept to the next? Not me. Something wriggling and slimy will come along and my interest will be held captive.

Meticulously crafted plot lines and riveting twists? Oh no. I’d use a sparkly purple dragon as a super sexy deus ex machina in an 18th century British political drama. That makes total sense.

So. I’ve decided. I will not write a novel. Instead, I will be a sparkly purple dragon.

Carry on.