Tag Archives: amwriting

May 23 2016
6 Comments
Blogging

This is my 15ooth Post

This one. Right here. 1500 posts in two years and three months.

1500 rantings about nonsense.

1500.

I wish I had planned something better for it but I just noticed I was at 1,499 and decided to make it an even 1500.

I’ll have to plan a party for my 2000th post.

Blogging has been quite a trip.  Often, I feel like it isn’t worth it.  That I write so much and there’s so little response.

But then I see progress.  All those followers and clicks add up.  I’ve seen more progress add up in this than anything else I’ve done.

Anyway, thanks 3.5 readers.  I’ll keep writing as long as at least 3.5 of you keep showing up.

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May 22 2016
1 Comment
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Part 10 – Dying With Your Boots On

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Blythe has loaded his vile army of the undead aboard a train headed East, schemes to backstab his furry friends and enlists the aid of a strange vampire colleague for some sinister doings.

The vampire lawyer makes Slade an offer he can refuse, but in turn, the counselor refuses to take no for an answer.

Blythe separates Slade’s women.  Will our hero be able to save them both before it is too late?

Gunther wishes his boots were off.

Chapter 95       Chapter 96       Chapter 97

Chapter 98      Chapter 99       Chapter 100

Chapter 101     Chapter 102

 

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May 22 2016
3 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 96

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“Fuck those werewolves,” Blythe said. “Once we take D.C. I ought to have the whole lot of them shot.”

Blythe sat on a red velvet couch in a small, cozy cabin. Devoid of any windows, the only light came from a few lit candles sitting on a table.

Sounds of lip smacking filled the room.

“Without humans to contend with, those hairy bastards will no doubt start strutting about in their werewolf forms all day long,” Blythe said. “And before you know it, they’ll be challenging us.”

Blythe waited for a response.  Upon hearing none, he kept talking.

“I’ll be damned if everything I’ve worked for is going to be lost to a bunch of smelly dog men,” Blythe said.

The lip smacking continued.

“I say we as soon as we don’t need them anymore we line them up and shoot the whole lot of them in their ugly heads,” Blythe said. “Silver bullets all around.”

Blythe patiently waited for a response. Hearing none, he continued. “Oh, but I suppose the board will get their knickers in a twist over that idea too. They’ll tell me we need to make nicey-nice with our furry compatriots.”

The room grew quiet…and then…more lip smacking.

“Lamont?” Blythe asked. “Lamont, are you evening listening to me?”

From the other side of the couch, a response came in the form of a male with a cockney British accent.

“Sorry Guvnah,” the voice said. “A bit indisposed I is.”

The lifeless body of young woman dropped to the floor. Blythe took a candle and inspected her face. Pale. Drained of all color. Two holes in her neck.

Blythe looked to his right to see Lamar wiping his blood drenched lips on his shirt sleeve.

Lamont was big and brooding. Broad shouldered and muscular, with little more than black stubble covering his head.

“I didn’t offer you no gravy,” Lamar said as he retracted his fangs. “Was that wicked?”

“A trifle rude but I’m not hungry,” Blythe replied. “Did you hear a word I said?”
“Bob’s your Uncle, I did, I did,” Lamont replied. “Bit of a sticky wicket that business. A fluffy dog be a vamp’s best mate today but it could bite the hand wot feed it tomorrow, yeah? ‘Aint not use for a bollocks dodger but you might  bide your ticks till it do the biting err right’s on your side, wot wot?”

“I have no idea what you’re saying half the time, Lamont,” Blythe replied. “But no matter. I need you to do a job for me.”

“A bit o’ the cat o’ nine tails, is it?” Lamont asked. “Flog your gullivah? Get down to brass tacks and make some brown bread, ay? Butcher’s hook for the ducks and geese. Might make me a bit knackered I nose but who is I to Barnaby Rudge?”

Blythe’s eyes widened with confusion. “Will you just grab your tool kit already?”

“Right-o,” Lamont said as he opened a closet. He removed a large tin box, set it up on the table and opened it.

Knives of all different shapes and sizes. Corkscrews. Surgical tools.

“Blood bags it is?” Lamont inquired.

That question, Blythe understood. “Blood bags it is,” he replied.

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May 21 2016
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Zombie Western

100 Chapters of How the West Was Zombed

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100 Chapters, 3.5 readers. 100 Chapters.

Slade needs to catch a train, have a fight with a damn vampire, and then things get wrapped up and then the future is foreshadowed and then boom! Cut…print…await my fat ass check from Jeff Bezos.

OK maybe it won’t be that easy, but we’re getting there, 3.5 readers. We’re getting there.

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May 19 2016
3 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 101

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Major Culpepper’s men stood on the Missouri side of the Sturtevant Bridge, rifles drawn and pointed at a large crowd of people who were undeterred.

The Major himself withdrew his saber and rattled it wildly in the air.

“Back, you rabble! Back, I say!”

An angry farmer wearing a straw hat let the Major have it. “You can’t send us back there! There’s nothing to go back to!”

An elderly woman with three teeth chimed in. “We’ll all be eaten alive by dead folk if you turn us away!”

“Can’t any of you filth read?” Culpepper asked as he pointed his saber to the lone piece of paper that Corporal Bartlett had tacked to a tree. “The president has declared that you are all to be presumed to be zombies and shot if you attempt to cross. My hands are tied. Disperse immediately.”

A weeping woman wrapped in a shawl held up a crying infant wrapped in a blanket.

“Please sir,” she begged. “At least take my baby so that he might have a chance.”

The major’s glare at the fussy baby was interrupted when the corporal tapped him on the shoulder.

“What is it, Corporal?” an annoyed Major asked.

“A word sir?”

The Major nodded and walked a few feet back onto the bridge with the Corporal, leaving his men to keep the crowd at bay.

“Sir,” the Corporal said. “Can’t we take the baby?”

“That was the ugliest baby I’ve ever seen, Bartlett,” the Major said. “For all I know it could be a zombie.”

“Clearly none of these people are zombies,” Bartlett said.

“Oh, and I suppose you’re an expert on the subject now?” the Major asked. “There’s nothing clear about it, Bartlett. We know very little about zombies. Any one of these people could be carriers of the dreaded zombie contagion. What am I supposed to say to the Eastern seaboard when it gets wiped out? ‘Oh sorry, Eastern seaboard, but Bartlett tripped over his vagina when it was time to secure the Sturtevant Bridge?’”
“But sir…”

“No buts about it, Corporal,” the Major said. “Our orders are to deny passage to anyone who attempts to cross this bridge and that’s all there is to it.”

“But sir surely you could exercise some discretion,” the Corporal said.

“What are you on about?”

“This is a confusing situation, isn’t it?” Bartlett asked. “No one’s keeping track of the time. We let the people cross. We blow up the bridge. Who’s to say they didn’t all cross before we even got here? I’ll swear on a stack of bibles I never saw them if we ever get court martialed.”

The Major looked at the woman holding the baby. He surveyed the crowd. So many young frightened faces. Children clutching their parents.

“Bah,” the Major said. “Blast you, Bartlett. I suppose no one could judge me too harshly if I save the women and children but I swear I’ll lop off your balls and stick them in a jar on my mantle if this ever comes back on me.”

“That’s fair, sir,” Bartlett replied.

“Robards!” the Major shouted.

The Major’s demolition expert was crouched over a bundle of dynamite, carefully tying it to a support beam.

A flick of ash fell on the bundle. Robards looked up to see a smoking private.

“Are you trying to make us all go kerblooey?” Robards asked as he stood up and smacked the smoke out of the private’s hands. “Get some sense, numb nuts!”

“Robards,” the Major repeated as he drew closer. “How long?”

“Depends,” Robards replied. “You want it done fast or you want it done right?”

“I want the whole damn thing blown to smithereens so I can get back to camp and take a shit,” the Major said.

Robards took off his hat and scratched his head. “Bout an hour.”

“Very well,” the Major said.

Culpepper and Bartlett walked back to the line of soldiers standing between the crowd and the bridge.

“Attention rabble,” the Major shouted. “In one hour’s time, all women and children will be allowed to cross. Men will be expected to return West to fight the zombie menace with honor and die with dignity. Say your goodbyes. There will be no further discussion of the subject.”

Various angry groans and complaints emanated from the crowd as the people talked amongst themselves.

Culpepper and Bartlett headed back onto the bridge.

“God help us if even one of these people is a zombie, Bartlett,” the Major said.

“Sir,” the Corporal replied. “I am absolutely positive that none of these people are zombies.”

The crowd stretched back for a quarter mile. Doc and Annabelle arrived on Hercules, unable to pass through the mob.

“Look at all these people,” Annabelle said.

“Yes,” Doc whispered. He pulled up his collar, turned down the brim of his hat, and pointed his head downward. “I do hope none of them suspect that I am a zombie.”

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May 17 2016
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Zombie Western

Happy Tuesday Nerds

Hey Nerds.

Just a quick note as I’m trying to post once a day for…well either for the rest of my life or until I quit writing and allow the Mighty Potentate to take over, whichever comes first.

Things are heating up with How the West Was Zombed so be sure to check that out.

And I’m not quite sure about Bookshelf Q. Battler’s Bad Ass Guide to the Zombie Apocalypse yet but I feel like it could be just a collection of my humorous rants circulating around a zombie theme, the best part being that I don’t have to worry a whole lot about continuity because it is just a collection of tirades.

Anyway, give me your feedback on both.  It is appreciated.

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May 16 2016
2 Comments
Zombie Western

How the West Was Zombed – Chapter 99

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The blood that squirted out of Blythe’s neck was as dark as the ink Slade has used to write his insult with.

The vampire didn’t get angry. He showed no signs of fear or confusion. He didn’t do one of the many things that most people would have done upon getting stabbed in the neck. He simply pulled the quill out of his flesh and set it down on the table.

Slade watched as the wound healed. The werewolf standing guard over Slade was about to give his prisoner some wounds of his own, but Blythe urged him to back off.

“It’s alright,” Blythe said as he wiped the blood off his neck with a handkerchief. “Mr. Slade has simply rejected my offer and has proposed a hostile counter-offer. I’ll have to pass as my mother died before long before Jesus was born. Secure the prisoner.”

The werewolf behind Slade complied and fastened the shackles back around the prisoner’s wrists.

“Apparently you’ve decided to extend the negotiation process,” Blythe said. “Allow me to offer my counter to your counter.”

The vampire withdrew his pistol, held it by the barrel, and pistol whipped Slade across his right cheek, opening up a deep gash. Red blood poured out of it.

“The board only directed me to keep you alive,” Blythe said. “They never told me that I have to keep you looking pretty.”

Gunther coughed. The shackles he was hanging from were beginning to cut his wrists.

“Takes a big man to wallop a fella when he’s all tied up,” the old man said.

Vampires don’t act out of emotion, seeing as they possess none. But like any being, they do get annoyed, and when vexed, they have been known to lash out in horrific ways.

Blythe did just that when, without wasting a second to think about it, aimed his revolver at Gunther and fired a shot right into the old man’s belly.

“And no one said a damn thing about keeping your elderly sidekick alive at all,” the vampire said.

Slade seethed as Gunther shouted a trail of expletives.

The vein in Slade’s forehead was ready to burst. He sprang to his feet only to be backhanded to the ground by a werewolf’s paw.

Said werewolf turned Slade over on his back, allowing the vampire to lean down and get in the captive’s face.

“Listen to me and listen well, you insignificant twat,” Blythe said. “You’ve decided to take the hard way now. So be it. You’ll lie here and watch the old man who gave you the love your father never did slowly bleed to death. Meanwhile, your savage friends and the woman who you treat like second best will be kept as blood bags, prisoners whose sole purpose for remaining alive will now be to be fed on by vampires in service to the Legion Corporation.”

The vampire picked the contract up off the table.

“The woman you love the most will be taking a train ride with me as an insurance policy,” Blythe said. “I haven’t decided what to do with her once I don’t need her any more but for some reason, sucking every last drop of blood out of her then tossing her dried up carcass off the Sturtevant Bridge seems like it would be quite entertaining.”

The vampire lightly slapped his hand against Slade’s injured cheek. “And then finally, when you give up and realize that everyone you ever loved is either dead or wishing they were because of you, you’ll find me…”

Blythe crumpled up the contract into a ball and bounced it off Slade’s forehead.

“…and you’ll beg me to draw up another one.”

The vampire snapped his fingers and the werewolves joined him in strutting out of the livery.

Slade’s mind was in turmoil. So many thoughts. So many emotions. All he could get out was, “I’ll kill you! Do you hear me? I’ll find you and tear you apart and make you wish you were never born!”

“Blah, blah, blah,” the vampire said. “So said every righteous knight, warrior, and priest I ever crossed paths with since King David was a tiny tot. I’ve heard it all before. So long, Slade.”

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May 15 2016
4 Comments
Ask the Alien

Ask the Alien – 5/15/16 – Genre Mashing with Dakota Kemp

By: Alien Jones, Intergalactic Correspondent

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“Hmm yes. Hot steampunk chicks with big cannons. I dig it.”

Greetings Earth Losers.

The Esteemed Brainy One here.  The intergalactic trade war over irregular pants continues, but alas, I have done all I can. I have since moved on to Dromodo, where the beings are fighting over the right to marry.

I have heard you humans have been squabbling over that right yourselves (i.e. who should and shouldn’t be allowed to marry) but the Dromodons have a different kind of fight going on.

None of them want to get married ever again.  The government wants to hitch everyone up in forced marital bliss whereas the Dromodons just want to chill out and let their freak flags fly.

That’s what they call their genitals. “Freak flags.”  Very disgusting. Just take my word for it. You don’t want me posting any pictures of that nonsense.

Anyway, I just received this transmission from Earth writer, Dakota Kemp:

Should storytellers cross genre boundary lines? Or should authors like Bookshelf Q. Battler and I be considered clinically insane for their penchant of smooshing together wildly disparate genres?

For example, I’m mashing together the steampunk and sword-and-sorcery genres in my novel, Ironheart: The Primal Deception just as BQB does with westerns and zombie dystopia in How the West Was Zombed.

Are BQB and I unrecognized geniuses or delusional losers?

Hmmm.  Like Charlie Sheen on a Friday night, that question is loaded.

Perhaps I’ll start by taking a look at your latest novel, which I’m told just hit Amazon’s virtual shelves on May 12:

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Well, you’ve got all the trappings of a good novel here. A serious looking man with a derby. Old warrior who looks like he’s up to something. Hot chick with a big ass weapon.

I like it.  And really, the whole secret to good writing is that you, the author, like it.  And it appears to me that you do.

People try so hard to put books into boxes and slap labels on them.

The big question is “Are you having a good time while you write it?”

If you’re having fun, then it will show in your writing.

Everyone is different.  Some people are old ladies who love to write cozy mysteries in which their precocious kitty cats solve crimes.

Others are lonely housewives who unleash their pent up angst with steamy erotica.

Some people are like Bookshelf Q. Battler who beats himself up a lot over past mistakes and then inevitably writes stories about characters who goofed something up big time and are forever trying to make amends for it in some way.

The general advice I have heard from authors is that you try to “write for market” i.e. slap together a book that fits a cookie cutter cutout of every other book that is doing well, it probably will not do well if your heart and soul isn’t reflected in that book.

In other words, just write what you love to write about. If you love certain genres, and you enjoy mashing them up together, then by all means do so.

Think about it.

Do you want to eat a store bought cake that’s one in a hundred that was dumped off the back of a delivery truck yesterday?

Or do you want to eat a cake that was made with love by a little old lady baker who gets up at four a.m. every day?

The corporate clowns at your local chain grocery store don’t care about your taste buds or the art of cake making, but the little old lady who has studied baking her entire life certainly cares.

And perhaps that little old lady has a few tricks up her sleeve.  Maybe she adds a pinch of cinnamon or a dash of nutmeg to her cakes to really make your taste buds sing. Corporate clowns will never do that. They’ll just bust out their calculators, crunch the numbers, and decide they can still sell cakes without the added expense of nutmeg.

You sir, are clearly a nerd (no offense as nerds are held up with more reverence these days) who loves the steampunk and sword-and-sorcery genres.

You took your time, put in the work, built your own world and then birthed it into this one.

Are you insane and/or delusional?  No. If you enjoyed writing your book, it will show and once the word gets out, you’ll have way more readers than BQB’s paltry 3.5.

Dakota, there’s an old commercial for Reese’s peanut butter cups in which various humans complain in jest to one another, “You got chocolate in my peanut butter. No, you got peanut butter in my chocolate!”

Once upon a time companies just made chocolate. Then Mr. Reese shoved some peanut butter up a chocolate candy’s butt and people have enjoyed getting that much more obese ever since.

You’ll never know what people will like until you try.  Mr. Reese loved chocolate and peanut butter.  They’re better together, and I’m willing to bet that steampunk and sword-and-sorcery fantasy will mix just as well.

Sure, there will be plenty of squares who will tell you “don’t do this or that.”

They’ll tell you that genres are a lot like the lyrics to that fine 1994 song Come Out and Play by the Offspring.  “You got to keep ’em separated.”

Except, no you don’t.  Toss all the genres you want in a big bowl, mix them up, pop them in the oven, serve up your dish to the readers and let them decide.

By the way, don’t compare yourself to the lowly BQB. You two are in different leagues.

You sir, got a book to market, whereas BQB just screws around all day and maybe if I’m lucky he’ll write a chapter or two once a week.  He’s not exactly doing his part to stave off the Mighty Potentate’s conquest of Earth.

But you are, and that’s why your name will be added to the protected rolls once the MP rolls into town.

Good luck Dakota and stop by to let us know how your book launch went.

Alien Jones out.

Alien Jones is the Bookshelf Battle Blog’s intergalactic correspondent, graciously lending the power of his brain to answer your questions.

Ask the Alien a question and he may very well plug your book or blog in his answer.  Ask questions in the comments or tweet them to @bookshelfbattle

Together, we can promote self-published material and ween the masses off reality television, a form of entertainment that Alien Jones’ boss, the maniacal alien despot known as “The Mighty Potentate” despises so much that he’s plotting an invasion of Earth just to stop it.

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May 14 2016
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BQB's Bad Ass Guide to Surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

Bookshelf Q. Battler’s Bad Ass Guide to Surviving a Zombie Apocalypse – Introduction

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Artistic rendition of what Bookshelf Q. Battler would look like as a zombie nerd.

Good day, noble reader.

Bookshelf Q. Battler here.

Most likely, we haven’t met yet, but I hold many titles.  Specifically, I’m a world renowned poindexter, epic nerdventurer, reviewer of pop cultural happenings, a magic bookshelf caretaker and last, but certainly not least, a champion yeti fighter.

I won’t waste too much of your time going into all that hullabaloo.  If you’re interested (and I hope you are) you can read more about my life by visiting my humble blog, “Bookshelf Battle” located for your convenience at bookshelfbattle.com

As of this writing, I’m proud to announce that the Bookshelf Battle Blog boasts upwards of 3.5 readers, and it would be a distinct honor for me if you would bring that total up to 4.5.

Hell, if you’re one of those fancy people who has friends, feel free to tell them about me and together, we can make my plan to get my website up to 30.5 readers by 2020 a reality.

If you’ll allow me this brief plug, the Bookshelf Battle Blog is a rousing celebration of all things nerdy.  I don’t mean to imply that you, specifically, are a nerd. Cool people purchase books on how to survive zombie apocalypses all the time.  For the rest of you nerds, I think you’ll feel right at home after your first visit.

I’m not going to lie.  It isn’t easy juggling my many duties. Did I mention on top of all this I hold two full-time jobs?

One of them even pays. I currently hold the distinguished position of Assistant to the Assistant of the Vice-President of Corporate Assistance of Beige Corporation, the world’s premiere supplier of beige products and accessories.

Our motto? “When you need to wear a color that says absolutely nothing about you as a person whatsoever, try beige!”

Yup. It’s a gig that is as boring as it sounds, but it does pay the bills.  Don’t worry, I’m only doing it until my career as a self-published writer takes off.

FYI my writing career needs to take off or else a maniacal alien despot has pledged that he will conquer the planet, but I don’t want to bore you with my problems.

Well, technically it’s also your problem, unless you’re one of those who weirdoes who thinks getting your planet conquered by an alien would be good times. Personally, I doubt it.

Theoretically, I’m not sure the aliens could do any worse than the folks running the joint right now, but this isn’t a political book, so I don’t want to open that can of worms.

Where was I?  Oh right.  Telling you about my two full-time jobs.

The second one only pays me in heartburn and increased stress levels.  But it’s also the reason why I have become an expert on the subject of zombie attacks.

You see, I currently hold the position of Acting Mayor of East Randomtown, USA.

I was never elected and honestly, I don’t even want the job because it requires me to listen to the incessant complaints of a bunch of dumb dummies.  Literally, Kim Kardashian could challenge any one of my constituents to a debate and come off sound like Steve Hawking against these brain donors.

Look, I’m not trying to disparage my home town, but facts are facts, and here are some facts that will help you get the full picture of what I’m dealing with here:

  • An Absurdly High Mortality Rate – My home town leads the world in deaths caused by accidental choking caused by an inability to walk and chew gum at the same time.  I have done my best with a “Spit Before You Hoof It” campaign but I can only do so much.  We are also the town with the highest number of accidental drownings due to people leaving their mouths open when it rains. Thanks to my leadership, every neighborhood has a drown warden now, charged with the task of reminding everyone to shut their suck holes at the first sight of a rain drop.
  • Poor Education – Thanks to my “Books Won’t Steal Your Soul” initiative, I was able to convince more townsfolk to pursue higher education for awhile.  Alas, that all stopped when the local Hipster Hut had a sale on laser pointers. Now half the populace just draws on their walls with their laser pointers while the other half, much like cats, try to catch the light between their hands.
  • Favorite Pasttimes – Baseball?  No. Our official town sport is “Getting Drunk and Accusing Other People of Thinking They’re Better Than You.”  Resident Otto Dobner holds the record, having accused three hundred and eighty seven residents of thinking they’re better than he is.  (Between you and I, most of them were.)

Point? I never would have voluntarily sought the position of being the leader of this moronic wasteland.

Rather, I was drafted into the position in October of 2015, during which I bravely and selflessly took it upon myself to save the town from a zombie apocalypse caused by the evil mad scientist, Dr. Hugo Von Science. (Side note: Dr. Hugo is still a columnist for my blog but my lawyer is working on breaking that contract on the grounds of, well, he’s a nutbag who enjoys causing zombie apocalypses.)

Long story short, our elected mayor was eaten by zombies and then our self-appointed mayor tried to kill me and feed me to zombies.  Ultimately, I had to take the position and am doing my best to suffer through it until someone with half a brain is willing to take this burden off my hands.

I’m not holding my breath.  If you’re interested in the events of the East Randomtown Zombie Apocalypse, you can read more about that on my blog. Hell, feel free to click a few extra buttons while you’re there because it gives me the warm fuzzies whenever I see my blog stats go up.

My purpose with this book isn’t to educate you about the zombie mayhem that went down in East Randomtown.  Suffice to say, under my leadership, a whopping 35% of the townspeople were saved, which sounds low, but if you think you could save more people during a zombie apocalypse, then feel free to write your own guide to surviving a zompoc, you braggadocios pain in the posterior, you.

Instead, my goal is to take you, the noble reader, open up your brain and pour in all the knowledge I gained as an experienced fighter of the undead, thus turning you into a bad ass zombie apocalypse survivor.

Noble reader, I’ll even make you this guarantee.

If a zombie apocalypse ever does break out and the knowledge you gained from this book does not prevent you from dying a miserably gruesome death at the hands of disgustingly wretched zombies, then simply send me a tweet @bookshelfbattle and I’ll happily give you a full refund.

And if there’s never a zombie apocalypse, then you’re welcome. No doubt that will be the result of all the zombie apocalypse avoidance information that you will also find inside this revered tome.

Thank you for your time, your interest, and most importantly, the sweet sticky scrilla you dropped on this book.  Know that it will be spent on a good cause, namely, a wings and skins sampler at my favorite chain restaurant, which I will stuff in my face hole in your honor.

Now take my hand and join me on this epic learning experience.

Hold onto your brains.  It’s going to be a bumpy ride. (And also, it makes it harder for the zombies to eat them.)

Warmest Regards,

Bookshelf Q. Battler

Blogger-in-Chief of the Bookshelf Battle Blog

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May 12 2016
5 Comments
Writing

Will people stop reading books in the future?

I wonder and/or worry there might come a day when people don’t read novels like they do today.

I don’t have the stats but I don’t think they even read as much as used to.

So many shows. So many movies. So many streaming services. There’s probably never been a better time to be an actor or a TV writer (I assume competition is still difficult but there are at least more jobs to compete for maybe?)

I’m talking distant future. People will still need to read to get through daily life but I wonder if a time will come, like a hundred years now when people are like why the hell would I read a novel?

I don’t know. Just a thought.

 

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