I've come to realize that I have a curse upon me. I don't know which witch doctor from which tribe or perhaps an old Sicilian gypsy that my Great Grandfather stole sardines from, but it has become evident.

If there is one thing I do well when it comes to writing is create wonderful characters that people really care about. And that's where my curse begins. See, I write these stories. The story lines aren't all that involved or complex or even original. Heck, most of my material is stuff I remember from old sitcoms that I transgenderfy. Most of my novels are from songs. God Bless the Child is nothing more than The Little Girl by John Michael Montgomery, A Different Kind of Life is a rehash of How Life Can Change, Wrestling Against Myself is autobiographical for the most part (I was Tiny in real life and there was a Corey who I knew). But the characters, those are mine. I don't even know how I do it. But people fall in love with my characters.

So here comes the curse:

People like my characters so much that they demand more stories. The problem is, sometimes I don't have a story in mind for those characters and the idea of forcing it seems unfair to everyone involved. Sometimes it's a matter of time. I do plan on continuing with Jenny from the God Bless the Child trilogy, but that's the only character who I have earmarked for anything (except for Andrew in the current work). The rest are pretty much done with. I'm sorry you grew attached. I would like to think everyone lived happily ever after.

Right now I am working on a Christmas story. I think it sucks, but I am hoping to get over a head cold and salvage something out of it.