I resolve to not resolve...

No New Year's Resolutions. They're a waste of time. Waste of effort. Waste of positive energy on something geared towards failure. And the fact that I've never kept one is beside the point. I've also grown to believe that once you actually give voice to a resolution or plan or intention, something deep in your psyche -- or a force in the universe, if you prefer -- aligns itself against you. At least, they do with me.

I've discovered, for example, that every time I get into a line for anything, it's the slowest one. Doesn't matter how fast it was going when I joined it; the second I'm locked in with people behind me, it all but stops. I actually had a good grocery checker swap out for an amazingly inept one at a Wegman's, who then called for assistance 3 times while checking people out ahead of me. Then she was replaced with one who couldn't understand the concept of putting bread and bananas in last, so they're on top, instead of slinging them in as you go along.  I wound up putting my own groceries in the bag.

I also make wrong turns. If I hit a fork in the road and go left, it winds up that I should have gone right. And what's the latest? For the first time I let myself get talked into getting a flu shot...and it turns out it's for the wrong strain of the epidemic happening on the West Coast, right now. Perfect. Means I'll probably wind up with the effin' flu.

So the only thing I can do is embrace my wrong-way-ness. It's been suggested by a "friend" that if I wanted to write books with gay characters and intense sexual situations, I should have used a pseudonym so it would lessen the impact on my more mainstream work. And logically, they're right. If you Google my name, what comes up first are links to me as author of How To Rape A Straight Guy.

It's also been suggested that if I'd written my books geared to heterosexuals, I'd probably have sold a lot more. 50 Shades of Gray is used as an example of how kink can sell to suburban housewives, and Jackie Collins sells millions of copies of books with intense sex in them; hell, she can be found in the damn library. But two guys having at it? Ew.

Well fuck that. If I go left and should have gone right, I'll just change course. And I'm writing what I fucking want to write, from now on, and if it doesn't sell a million copies, so be it. I'm at that stage of life where I'm going to enjoy myself and if people don't like it, so what?

I am Tigger...hear me ROAR...wait, did I just make a resolution?