Well, it's that time of year again. Seems the bank actually wants me to pay my mortgage -- and strangely enough, lots of other folk want me to pay my bills, too. So here I go, flying into the Great Wide Yonder -- wondering if this will be the time that the chicken a la king was left sitting on the tarmac too long -- off to meet a ship and teach university-level Composition classes to bright-eyed young sailors. Well, tired-eyed, often tattooed sailors. Well, something like that.
It's an enjoyable job, most of the time. I get to travel to exotic, far-off destinations without actually having to pay to reach said destinations; I meet interesting people, only some of whom attempt to mug me, con me, or pick my pocket; and, well, I get paid well enough that I get to take half (or more -- this last downtime was eight months) of the year off for writing, pleasure travel, and what I can salvage of some resemblance of a social life. Woo!
But I've been feeling the need more and more lately to, well, be at home more and more. And by "home" I pretty much mean the U.S. Or at least not on ships. Toward that end, I've started writing more. Two novel-length works in the past eight months, for instance -- hopefully coming to a bookstore near you soon.
Anyway, for the moment, that doesn't pay the bills, and foreign climes (usually hot) beckon to me from across the waters. There's always some good stories in that. Keep an eye on these pages for Tales of the High Seas and Adventures in the Not-so-oft-Travelled Lands.
Until then, cheers, and raise a mug for me now and again.