The 90% Manifesto
So it drives my girlfriend nuts, but I get incredibly antsy whenever we go to a bookstore. 90% of the work being published is absolute doggerel. A monkey with a lot of time of his hands could write this trash. But then there is that 5% that blows my mind (see Wolfe); these folks are brilliant and I cannot conceive of being able to write so well.

For my part, I am a persistent monkey who knows a couple chimps that can edit, so I suspect my final drafts fall somewhere in the middlin' range. Still, it drives me nuts to walk through a bookstore seeing all this terrible, terrible prose for sale.

Moreover I am absolutely convinced that you too can write above the 90% benchmark (likely higher) and I am willing to put it to print.

And there you have it, the impetous for Goblin Tails.

Welcome, Ed/Mother!
A big, deathy welcome to Ed, whom most of us know as Mother1219. Make sure to buy a copy of Realms of the Dragons, Vol. II when it comes out next year; word on the street is that Mother got one of the cool dragons, which is quite a feat considering the competition.

999 Who-see Whats-its?!
You know, monkeys.

If 1,000 monkeys had typewriters, a bit of time of their hands and a decent spellcheck program, they could write Hamlet , or in my case, a good Conan story.

Whenever one of you makes it, the remaining 998 monkeys and I stand up and give a rousing cheer.

So no, it's not Satanic, although there can be a bit of poo flinging in the back.

Old Men on Wheels
Two nights a week I dedicate to volunteering at the local youth club, skateboarding with the kids.

Most often, my skating is terrible and I spend a lot of time falling down on concrete.

Some nights my skating comes together and I can hang with the kids.

And then there are the truly rare nights when my skating comes together and I have the chance to press myself to the edge where folks typically get hurt. These are the nights I end up bloody, scraped and bruised, but come away feeling alive.

Last night I was fortunate enough to partake in one of those nights.

And as I wished the children goodnight and left the park, the dark skies opened up and a good, soaking rain came pouring down. Walking home, cars hurtling by on the dark streets, I had one of those passing moments where I was everything I had ever wanted to be: with some dreams realized, and some still waiting in the wings; bleeding, but not broken; and with a board over my shoulder as I headed home to work on a story.


(This really deserves more thought than I can give it now, but I hope there is enough there to convey the skeleton.) I hope everyone else had a wonderful night, too. Take care, guys and gals.


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