One of my many many many little brothers charged me with scribbling some thoughts on self-publishing a couple years back.
This afternoon I stumbled upon it while googling myself—oh, the unmitigated narcissism—and was reminded just how acerbic and generally on target it was.
I know, I know. I’m supposed to pretend my own writing never impresses me.
Everybody knows all the best writers go, “Aw shucks, I’m not really any good.”
That’s how you know they’re really great!!!
If you don’t mind someone doing a bit of a soft-shoe in the charred remains of your hopes and dreams …
Gather round, ye sprigs, and me tell ya tales a treachery, hopelessness, an’ unalloyed gall. Mon. Click de link if ya dare.
Not sure why I turned Jamaican voodoo priestess that last sentence.