I have three creative projects currently in process. The first is this blog; I aim to communicate with the outside world from this mysterious location between my ears, with a goal of sending a message daily at least weekdays.
Then there’s the continuing adventures of Myke Phoenix, stalwart protector of Astor City. Conceived nearly a quarter-century ago, Myke finally was revealed to the world in 2008. I began churning out new adventures early this year for Kindle, two new stories within three weeks. The next batch will probably come out in a flurry, too.
Finally, there’s Uncle Warren’s Attic, the podcast. Been 80 of ’em. I don’t want to produce an 81st without plans for more beyond that. Working on that. No, really.
On the side there’s the day job, and the animals, and the yard work. I can’t use them as an excuse for any lack of visible progress because last summer, when we moved twice and built a house, I managed to write a novel (also available for Kindle, by the by).
A friend of mine left a simple motivating comment not too long ago during a dry spell: “Writers write.” I call myself a writer. So I’m writing. By the way, if you call yourself a writer, you should be writing, too. Today and every day. It’s easy to call yourself a writer. But what have you written?