A quick public service announcement to say that we’ve hit 190 and counting on the short story that has grown and grown like a force-fed chicken.

Or a weed, for you vegetarians.

And by ‘we’ I mean me, of course, and my agent, Bill, who has been holding a sawed-off shotgun at my head for the last few months while I whittle away at the monstrous fourth draft. His arms were getting tired (interesting fact, even if the shotgun is propped up and it’s not nearly as heavy as a full-barrelled shotgun, your arms will get tired holding a sawed-off shotgun at one level for an extended period of time) so he’s gone off to rest them and use the restroom for a few, which is why I’m allowed… well, not allowed, but, you know, taking advantage of the time to post this little update from inside the writer’s studio/prison.

The last forty or so pages may not be the prettiest in the world, but some of the words on those pages even look like they belong together in the same sentence.

I can’t wait for you all to read it.