Strange day yesterday.
In my dayjob I had to say goodbye to the team I’ve worked with for over a decade. I’ll still be around, but I’m no longer directly managing them – I’ve moved into ‘a closer relationship’ with what they refer to as “Senior stakeholders” (though some might say “Not real people”).
I really didn’t expect to be so emotionally impacted. I’m still here; they’re still here. We’ll talk. But… I don’t like change; and I’ve said a million times that what’s kept me in the job through various bouts of romper room fuckery is my gang – spread all over Europe Africa and the Middle East. And now, they’re not my gang any more, and I feel alone and a little sad.
And then I arrived home to the first review of Death of an Angel (Out 28th Feb, kids, in both eBook and paperback and available from both Amazon (home of great eBooks as weel as Jeff Bezo’s well-known Penis) and directly from Fahrenheit Press), and it was a corker of a review. It had lines like “This is a great mystery – fast-paced and with enough twists and turns to keep you guessing. And the fabulous banter is still there,” and I finally cried a little cos who doesn’t love being loved when it’s all a bit raw out there?
And then a friend from the crime writing fraternity – someone way cooler than me, and with a contacts book that resembles the Encyclopedia Brittanica (It’s like Wikipedia, kids, but from an age where nobody gave a fuck about minimalism. Or trees) called to say he might have an opening for someone to write on a blog that features some of the writers I most admire, and another crime writer friend asked if I wanted to go to dinner tonight to discuss world domination.
And I get it: There is tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow. Until there isn’t. But I still feel sad.
But I don’t feel alone any more.
Endings. And beginnings.
And on we go.
