Friends,

I did not die during the pandemic. Fake news! In fact, my family bunkered down and I just got really bad asthma. My wife, my kids, they came thru unscathed. Yes, I locked them away Midwestern man kidnapping family in a basement style, but hey - you only get 1 great plague every 100 years so I went all in on Helsinki syndrome.

The vicarious trauma did kill my reading habits & zest to create. I wanted my family to survive; they had severe asthma to begin with, I didn’t. I had 6 figure health insurance - if I croaked from a dreamy pulmonary embolism, my younger hot wife could pay off the mortgage, go back to college, and be a hot rich widow to lust after. Me risking the Rona to work & buy food was the common sense play.

And here we are. I am writing again. I found the 2nd part for a short story that has gotten personal polite rejects from great mags. I started a new short based on my eternal WIP - a doorstopper intergen domestic novel set in Nicaraguan early 2000s and Winfield, Kansas early 2010s. It’s about family and shit.

I’m still reporting on politics but it’s fellowships behind the scenes. I may hustle up some byline work this World Cup. Men in shorts kicking a ball & money laundering. How could I resist?