Confessions of a two-timing writer

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Dear Reader,
I guess it’s time to let y’all know the news.

I’ve been cheating on you with other stories.

I know it’s a terrible transgression, but Daddy always said confession cleans the everlasting soul, and if anyone’s soul needs a little clean-up, it’s mine.

Wendy with Anderson Bean boots and pretty trucksHey, look, it’s not you, it’s me. I’m the one with the problem. You’re just an innocent bystander, caught in the fracas. You were good and true and kept on reading me over here while I wantonly dabbled with fiction behind your back.

I’d like to say the attraction to fiction came about when TD and Max let me publish a Halloween piece for Overdrive each year, but that would be a filthy lie. Truth is, I wrote my first fiction piece at the age of eight, about a bowl of fruit that came to life on the kitchen table each night after folks who lived in the house went to sleep. (My second grade teacher always looked at me funny after I wrote it, but I thought it was pretty good.)

Anyway, I never intended to write about real things. It just happened that way when I realized you can’t make up the things we see on the road, because the real-life weird level just isn’t obtainable anywhere else. It’s crazy out there, and fiction doesn’t hold a candle to it, come on.

So if you’re willing to share me with my feeble attempt to get a fiction book finished, I’m willing to admit I’m two-timing you. I’ll make it up by continuing to report the real life road weird, and promise to never intertwine the two — unless, of course, I’m telling one of my filthy lies.

Let’s not tell the kids just yet. We’ll see how this arrangement works before making little Johnny all sad. Remember, I love you just the way you are, don’t you ever change, and I mean it this time.