Add in the 22,300 words that didn’t even make it in, and I typed well over 1,000,000 characters to make this bitch.
Allow me a moment to pry my ass away from this chair. I think it’s grown into my gluteus maximums like a triangle’s tail sinking into Perry’s junk. I’m done. I’m done. I’m done.
Life is full of great moments, those times where your chest fills with the pride of knowing you busted your ass and put on a blue-collar performance worthy of an AFL-CIO endorsement. CONTAGIOUS goes to the publisher, warts and all, and no matter what you all think of it the book, this blood-spotted keyboard is proof that I put everything I had into making this the best novel possible.
The rush I’m experiencing right now is indescribeable. This is what it felt like to some Egyptian dude when he dropped that last block onto the pyramid, and then said, "Hey, Ezekiel, it’s Miller Time, brah." So much work went into this. So many life changes in the last five months. The passing of a beloved dog, the illness of a family member. The Evil Queen™ returns from Michigan tomorrow, and I can finally dedicate my full attention to her in her time of crisis. Life giveth, and life taketh away.
I have put my very being into this rat bastard. I want it to rock you like Queen would if Freddy Merc were still with us. I want it to lock the breath in your throat, grab your privates in a not-so-nice way, make your stomach flip and your nips all hard and tingly. I want it to smash you flat like a Matt Wallace snap-souplex.
Above all, I want CONTAGIOUS to entertain you. You Damn Dirty Junkies have no idea what you all mean to me, and I hope this one hits you so hard you fly into the ditch with your empty shoes still on the road. CONTAGIOUS is my love letter to y’all.
And for you aspiring novelists asking if this level of committment and sacrifice is worth it? Yeah, it is.
I am your FDO™, and I do work.