Woot! The Memory Collector is here!
Most stories set in Victorian England paint the era in the glow of gaslamps and refinement.Β This is not one of them.
Me, sending Tom the next 4 chapters of The Memory Collector: Hereβs the next big chunk of insanity. I wonder where you think Iβm going to take this story π
Tom: I have no idea, but I think REDACTED will get his comeuppance. π€
Me: Aha! But wouldn't that be too easy? (insert evil cackle)
You probably remember that we're running a kangaroo sanctuary (long story) and that we have a puppy.
Well. Said puppy has officially entered herΒ T. rex phase.Β π¦Β
This little gremlin managed toΒ rip a hole into the wallaby fence, big enough that our largest wallaby,Β Olli, saw his moment andΒ TOOK IT.
Nope. Of course not.
The Straight White Boys' Tech Oligarch Club does not need my money, nor do I want to hand it to any of them. Unfortunately, indie authors very much depend on Amazon and big social media to sell books and reach new readers.
Is anyone else here procrastinating with various creative side projects to avoid failing at one's actual job, because fuck-ups are surely going to happen every five minutes if one was to tackle The One Thing One's Supposed To Do? Story of my life. I kid you not.
My conversations with Mr Robot sometimes feel like I'm talking with a psychopath who tries very hard to say what it thinks I'd like to hear. And while the AI's replies are just reactions based in its language pattern recognition skills and the data I provided, they can be kinda scary at times.