Well, since it's about me, I can't kill off the poor slob, now can I? I'm superstitious about that sort of thing, maybe from watching too many episodes of Twilight Zone - you know, a writer who writes about things that come true, but studiply writes about his loved one's demise, then turns his next book into a suicide story (heh heh heh). The guy's life will change, not necessarily for the better, but for some other direction. I'd like to send it off to each of you, though, as this one won't be sent out for publication. I think that would be fun, this time around.