You might not have noticed, but the world is shrinking. Along with it, the gap between the almighty, worshipped writer and his/her adoring fans. (Or in my case, the fictional minions in my mind. Quiet, you! I’m writing.)
All joking aside, this is a serious issue on par with intermittent high-speed internet and trichinosis (whatever that is). With big publishers fading and book stores going belly up, more writers are pushing their wares directly to readers and more readers are getting their proverbial milk from the literary teat.
For the love. First they tell me “tree hugging isn’t a paid profession,” and now writing isn’t either? I pick all the wrong careers. Nothing beats sitting in front of a liquid crystal display jamming my fingertips repetitively into alphameric and numeric buttons all day long to create a splay of digital information from here to timbuk-twitter. Working in my pajamas. Rejecting routine hygienics. Washing up only for weddings. An occasional tree hug. It’s the perfect life.
Welcome to the first Global Reeferpunk blog post (literally, not in a “cosmic” sort of way). I’ve learned a few interesting things, commentary on American society if you will, since embarking on my treacherous Reeferpunk journey. It turns out that creating Mexican good guys who grow marijuana and get chased by a Texas Ranger bad guy who smokes marijuana sort of pisses people off in the United States.