I'm reduced to ventilation and catharsis. Since you asked:

I'm primarily updating this for the few honest, loyal readers who have bothered to follow my Murphy's Law-induced and quite circuitous perambulations these many years online. You know who you are.

Here's the deal: I had books published. Had, not have. One was traditionally done by grace of the very kind Jerlene Rose, formerly of Clay City, Kentucky. The other eight were done via CreateSpace through the efforts of one (also kind) Ibby Taylor Greer. (All that cycled into what is now Kindle Direct Publishing, or KDP, via Amazon.) Honestly, I didn't take the books seriously. A hobby, yes. Anything more was just the proverbial pipe dream. Print volumes only—I soon figured out I didn't have the energy to chase after ebooks... a decision later cinched after AI thefts by those who could well afford to buy instead of steal. I have no regrets. (Or tattoos.)

And now, thanks to a virtually impossible choice, a little genetic illness and subsequent situations, a public lack of support for the arts (and the involved "socially unacceptable" types of people), and resultant financial embarrassment... all nine books are out of print. Gone.

For those presently screaming, "But you can't!"... oh, yes, I can and I did. 

In this country, you get what the clueless voted for: mob rule. Taxation without representation. Poverty based on the bullshit theory of those who are in some way deemed as "different" choosing shitty lives, even if they got into it by an accident of birth. We're guilty until proven innocent, targets for eugenic theory, aging into investment purchase of a nice, square pointed shovel suitable for grave digging, and all because of intolerance. In a nation that came into being because of the same. Of course—poetic justice and history repeating itself. What a lovely flustercluck.

I can't heal it. Only mutually "broken" people out there will understand why. I refuse to argue with faces fronting minds that don't change. It's fools meeting at the common sense fence. I'm not going to waste my breath. 

I sometimes do still write or paint, maybe tinker with photography and a little digital art. For myself, by myself. 

AI? It's standing at the common sense fence, waiting for... the rich to get richer, the poor to get poorer? I'm uncertain. I do know it's inhuman and lazy, a sometimes viable tool that can and does lie like the internet, usually on subjects and projects it has no business being involved in. 

Summed up, AI is a profit margin generator. It doesn't involve me, or anyone else attempting to tune into original thought philosophies. It's just business. It doesn't care.

I started out telling animal related memoir stories, creative narrative nonfiction. That morphed into what amounted to adult faerie tales in a series. Getting rich wasn't a realistic option. It still isn't. 

On Facebook (more or less permanently deactivated/archived), my daily musings had a certain approval level. I did deal with a few troll types—they're inevitable. It was the increasing level of sociopathic bullshit that turned me away. In short, today's politics. 

Don't start preaching at me, either. I'm about as independent as it gets. I don't even like team sports—or for that matter, organized religion—because of the blind faith (most of it ignorant of anywhere near the full truth) required to ignore the value of real science and the greater good while divvying up potential players, simultaneously leaving  remnants of humanity to their hopeless tears. Narrow interpretations, cherry picking of facts, and unfounded theories presented as fact, these are the luggage of the rats leaving a sinking ship. I'll be over here, clinging to a flotation device, fending sharks off those who need a helping hand. (But you do you. Quietly, please.) 

I'm an opininated person. I fully confess. It's truth. Unfortunately, there's evidence behind what I have to say.

That is: I no longer write pretty stories. 

Hello, Society. You're an unmitigated bitch with a borrowed, tarnished halo and wings tattered by the hellfire you'd love to cloak yourself in. You smell of dirty gym socks, ableist theory, food your neighbors can't afford, bathing in the crude oil fires consuming those relegated to "collateral damage" (a hint of raw, unseasoned roasted long pork in there), and the holier than thou dust on ancient stone tablets meant for far better. Your imaginary toys—crypto, the international stock market, ROI and interest compounded daily—are your imaginary friends; you're "yes-humans", the ones literally setting the world on fire. 

Go for it. I've got a shovel you can borrow. 

No more faerie tales. Ugly humanity today ran my creative dreams through a crucible. All I got out of it was ashes.

I now propose we add some things to the American flag. 1) A rickrack rainbow border, signifying all of those not included in "created equal", with 2) a murky brown fringe to blur the edges of the blood, sweat, and tears of millions of ancestors, first responders, military personnel, innocent children and the elderly. This should cover edgy truth. 

The dead don't care, after all. And shamefully, neither do you.

No, I don't plan to publish more books. If I did, I'd risk what little life I have left. It doesn't mean I won't be here. What I won't be is a punching bag for random numbskulls wearing blinders. If my stories contain ugly things you can't bear to acknowledge, then so be it, Society. 

I didn't get here by myself. * closing the book * Just remember... you asked for my opinion. Unlike actions, opinions do little harm—we make mistakes in order to become better people. Or at least some of us do.

Sweet dreams.