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It sucks being a creative type. I’ve heard the compliments all my life: “you’re so creative,” people say, as though it’s a good thing. As if being creative is as valuable as being smart or good looking. Rich or lucky. It’s not.

I think it’s safe to say that there’s nothing more universally reviled than the cockroach. The little German roaches that look like long-grain wild rice are bad enough. But consider those big, black sewer roaches that look like pitted dates.

Today is, officially, my least favorite day of the year. It’s the day when we all set our clocks forward one hour for no apparent reason. I don’t actually know anyone who likes changing their clock and screwing up their eating and sleeping schedules—at least not anyone who admits it.

As I’ve written before, one of the most annoying things about being an indie author is all the marketing sharks that circle you like you’re chum in the water. Sadly, I suspect, many indie authors are easy prey.