Ah, the mid-year doldrums. When I become the most boring person ever. Not that I'm all that exciting at other times of the year. I write, I read, I edit... lather, rinse, repeat. Sometimes I fish or I garden, but it's too damn hot right now to want to do that. This year, I've been exercising, too. Not exactly exciting stuffs.
But readers shouldn't really care about all that. I'm just the man behind the curtain. Pay no attention. The real show is the stories. There are eleven of them out there right now. I'm working on an even dozen by the end of summer and a baker's dozen by the end of the year. Those are interesting and exciting.
I'll never stop a murderer or a terrorist threat or an evil god-thing. I'll never rise up against my oppressors or figure out a mystery or save the day. I'm just a writer. I make that interesting stuff up in my head. It's exciting in there (some days) and I'll happily crack the skull and pour it onto a page for you.
But me, personally? I'm kinda boring. And I'm okay with that.