Iíve deleted and rewritten this a lot of times already. Maybe Iíll delete this one too. It feels so painfully self-important, almost shamefully so, to prattle about myself. Iíve flipped off bios for years, shirked Facebook, and had an on-off relationship with so many Twitter accounts that even the most diehard viewers would be getting pretty fucked off with the depressing Ďsitcomí that would be my life right about now. What sort of arrogant tosser am I to get you to sit down with a stranger and say, ďRead all about me for a little while.Ē Youíve got more important things to be doing. So do I, truthfully. So I better get straight to it.

Iím done with publishing.

Can I even accurately say that? My website is a minefield of books announced a long time ago and still not released. Ruby #5 is coming up for a year overdue, and Ruby #4 was 18 months late before that. Since 2014, Iíve published exactly 1.78 books. I was practically a ghost as it was anyway, as far as these things go.

Iíve kept plugging away, though, working on things out of sight, lurking in some corner of this industry I came to in 2011. But now Iím tired Ė really, really tired. And this year I decided to finally take some time to reflect and work out whether I was happy here, whether I could be happy.

The answer to that question was no. And so, knowing that Iím finished with this, itís only fair to tell you.

Maybe youíll ask, ďWhy?Ē Some of itís me. A lot of it is me, really. Some of it has to do with Ďartí, however close to it Iíve ever gotten. Some of it has to do with meaning, both personal and an overarching sort thatís far greater than spewing words into word processors for hours. Partly I want to stop taking so many fucking headache tablets, because this past year has not been normal for me. And largely Iím sick of the self-aggrandisement, popping onto our little social platforms and saying, ďLook at me, look at this thing Iíve done, and tell me how good I am.Ē Weíre not doctors. Weíre not military men and women, fighting in a warzone. We donít save children, we donít put our lives at risk, we donít endanger anything more than our joints or eyes for some greater good.

Oscar Wilde said, among other things, ďAll art is quite useless.Ē He was wrong Ė and yet he was right too, so fucking right.

I donít want to be doing Ďuselessí anymore. I donít want to be not sleeping anymore.

I donít want to be writing anymore.

One promise I will make now is that Ruby Celesteís story is not being abandoned. Someone else will be taking the reins in the not-too-distant future, and weíll talk about that when we get there. The series will be finished, all according to plan, although it might take some time. Thereís some legwork to get done first. But rest assured: Revenantís Pursuit, when it gets here, will still be fathered by me, as will #6-9. Someone else will just be doing the typing.

Youíll still see books with my nameóat least 5 more. There will be other names on them too. And I hope, via those names, that you discover someone new.

Thanks for reading these words, and any others that led you to this place. I appreciate you all immensely.


Copyright © Nicholas J. Ambrose
2011 - 2015
Don't steal my stuff. Thanks.