I really need to chill (as George’d say) about this ridiculous Fiction Blogger serial fiction shite. I’ve been sitting here reading it over and over and getting angrier over the misrepresentation of me. But it’s occurred to me – it’s fiction. Sure, it’s based on me. And sure, I wish it was written by someone like Bryce Courtenay or Katharine Kerr or dammit, someone with talent. But it’s not. And the poor woman’s sole source of information is Lana, because I’ve refused to talk to her. And Lana is clueless. Thank the universe!
Except… Lana’s not going to be clueless anymore if she finds this blog, is she? And you might well ask, why the hell am I willingly turning my arse into Lana-fodder?
Maybe I’m just self-destructive.
