Do Not Judge Me For Making Money

You all know I love a good horror story, writing and reading one, and what's more terrifying than being a reclusive writer typing out short horror stories in the middle of nowhere with no phone service? How mad you're all going to be when you realize what I'm going to be doing for a year.

This society thing, isn't working out. Through no fault of particularly anyone's, I believe God has far more crimes to answer for than my social ineptitude, I will be retreating into the dangerous, uncharted territory of my unstimulated mind for 12 months. This means I will not be able to contact you for a year. I will not attend birthday parties. I will not grumble assentingly over rants about the dentist, the dog, or the payments for the car. I will not be able to hug any of you or hear any of your voices. I may achieve Nirvana.

Jokes aside, I love you all dearly and fiercely. You will all be missed, every day, and I daresay some nights I will have a little cry about it. Just a small one. But take heed that the days following those nights I may write sad, soppy scenes into my stories that may catch the eye of an emotional big-wig publisher who'll pay me a huge check that I can use to buy myself an even bigger, more isolated house in the woods. (I will also buy all of you lovely presents, that I promise this time, you will get to choose yourselves.)

Thank you all for joy, immaterial and for laughter, inspirational. Being surrounded by such beautiful, creative, kind, endearing and supportive people each as uniquely wonderful as the other is why I write. So technically, this is all your faults. I love you, see you in a year.

P.S If any of you take the liberty of dying in this time period, please come and haunt me. It'll do wonders for the atmosphere of the place, and my book xx