And here it is. Down here in the land of too much booze, too many barbies and fuck all art or literature, it's 1/1/2016. So what was 2015 like? 

That is the question,
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
 Or to take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them?

Now, that's something that wouldn't get through a modern proof-reader; mixed metaphor. They'd blue-pencil it and tell the editor that the writer was an inexperienced schmuck. Unfortunately, life has no proof-readers to set the prose straight, and maybe to stifle the genius or the insanity. Life just goes on, filled with events, realizations, discoveries and revelations. And the odd disappointment. 

Okay, so I graduated with my seventh tertiary qualification: Diploma in the History of Art. You know, like in Mr and Mrs Smith, when Brad Pitt tells Angelina Jolie it's legitimate. I can now never again say that I don't know anything about art, but I know what I like. I still know what I like, but I have lost all excuses. 

That was the easy part. Taking on the Honours course may just have been the crazy part. Surrounded by the best and brightest that filtered through the swamp of a baccalaureate, it's a tough struggle to stand out. Maybe continue, maybe not, but one thing is for certain; I'm closer than ever to picking up a pencil again and committing a work of art, or doodling on a pad, whichever is the closer description.

 So let me tell you about disappointment. Back in the days of Loncon, in 2014 (and if you have to look that up, you should maybe stop reading now) I savagely pursued editors, publishers, pet-minders and anyone who had any vague connection with publishing to get contact for a contract (I could probably rap something to that, but I hate rap). I sent, eventually someone, from a major publisher, replied. They liked it, but it needed a re-write. I re-wrote. They liked it more. Some months later, the reluctant, somewhat apologetic news came that there were two holdouts on the hierarchy, and I was, to put it politely, buggered like a poodle by a doberman. But this was a good person at the publisher, who put me in touch with, and recommended me to, two agents. 

Did I mention poodles and dobermans?

Yes, we love your work, but we can't see a market for this. Send us more.

And they were right. I can write better, when I get off the anti-depressants.  

Fuck it, I'll put it out on Amazon (where my YA novel, Verachena, is just waiting, waiting, to be purchased by discerning readers). Look for it soon. Hell, I need the money.

 So, I drifted through a year of promises, hope and disappointment. Towards the end, my wife retired from teaching, which is a wrench for her. Watch this space. My stepson got kicked out of his share house, and came out as a transgender (and I may have that wrong, because I'm not fully up to speed on the categoric alphabet spectrum of what goes from what to where in the QUILTBAG). Suffice to say, he's 34 years old, and that's grown up enough to make his own decisions, in my estimation. 

 So, the end of the year was a twisted little knot, fed by expectations and revelations. I'll take a rest from study to make some money teaching university students. I am lucky, even though it's been, in many ways, a tough year (I mean, I got credits, CREDITS, for the honours course; I think about laudanum overdoses if I don't get distinctions (Valium has to do)). I have a wife who loves me, and whom I love. In a twisting world, that's a centre. Stepson will do what he has to, and the best of luck to him. I think, around the place, I have a few friends, and I'm pretty sure I don't have any enemies. (sob; I even lack the significance to have enemies.) My main regret is that there won't be a new Terry Pratchett novel this year, and that I'm getting older. 

Any god who invented the aging process is not one I'll have much faith in.

It's 10.31 PM on January 1, 2016, and so far it's okay.