I wrote a couple of blog posts these past few months, and I didn't publish them, and I'm glad. As has become usual for 2020, the situation changed. By now, I would've been sorry I'd posted something which sat on my website while people were protesting for the protection of Black lives, and while thousands of others died of COVID-19. Mine is definitely not a voice you needed to hear in April or May of 2020.

So, I have been writing for this entire year.

I don't say that to brag. 2020 has failed to provide the energy many people draw on to create. I don't blame anyone for not pushing through it. I'm lucky enough to be white, pathologically introverted, and married to somebody with a very particular (and marketable) set of skills. I can look forward to reading books about this period when it's over. This year has slowed me down a bit, but I'm going to be one of those people who dies while writing a journal entry. A bad year isn't going to stop me.

My goal for writing novels is to entertain teachers, activists, medical professionals, scientists, developers, and other more useful people than myself. The people who hold the world together. If we're lucky, a story I write will give those folks a break.

That's why I turned in a draft of a new novel last week. Now, this doesn't mean it'll sell, or that you'll ever read it. It's just that this story now meets some criteria of "finished" which it's never met before. Blogging is likely to return to its typical monthly schedule. Be safe.