Dear ones, now that Peregrine is wrapped up (just a bunch of typos and grammar glitches need removing), it's time to share my nefarious plans with you. Or at least some of them.
I always thought of myself as a writer who wings it. I rarely plotted a thing, unless it involved concocting dynamite in 1890s Boston or committing murder with an aconite-soaked silk chemise in 1880s London.
I turned 50 today,
If you're around my age and worried you look old and shitty, listen to me:
You are beautiful.
You survived decades of battles, and you got a few scars now. So what? The alternative to growing old is dying young. Not really what I prefer. You?
Artists are often viewed as ascetic mavericks who create eye-opening magic we can all gawk and marvel at, while they live in a cardboard box if they haven't been lucky enough to inherit a million or two from their grumpy uncle.