I wrote a book.

Perhaps I shouldn't say it was written, more like it was... forged. Molded. I took a chunk of raw material and beat it into shape over a long period of time-- too long.

I wrote my book in break rooms. I wrote it in restrooms. I wrote it when I was supposed to be spending time with other people. I stole time from work so I could work on it. I sat on it for a while. Some people threatened bodily harm if I didn't share it with the world. So I worked on it some more.

It's a little rough around the edges, but it's okay, because I'm a little rough about the edges. I have talent, but in the time I was writing my book, I never honed it an instituition of higher learning. I didn't take even a single creative writing class. I am honing my talent at a university now, but it’s too late; my book is already done. I'm told it's pretty good besides. When I started it, it was supposed to take six months. Instead it took eight years.

It is a piece of Outside Art, and I am an Outside Artist.

On Wednesday, January 15th, 2014, my book came out. It appeared on various eBook markets like a thief in the night.

This is only the first book. There will be more.

This is the year my book came out.

This is the Year of Mister Mercury.

This is the year I get to move on.

^NOW GO AND GET IT. ^