Before I Drift Off to Sea

I'm about to head back into my Writing Zone, which is a giant sea turtle with a typewriter strapped to its shell, so I thought I'd check in with you all before I go.

First off, status report: my foot was bothering me, so I have replaced them both with authentic splintery pirate peg legs. They call me Wightbeard.

I was sick for a while, but now the nanobots in my bloodstream will be able to defend against the bioweapon that attacked me far more efficiently than ever before. Those who attacked me have only made me stronger.

And I have made significant progress on Dreadgod, but I am forbidden by ancient compact to speak of it much more. Blame the team.

I can only say a little, starting with the fact that I am climbing onto my sea turtle to write something new. Something that is not Cradle.

I can't say if it's a novel, a short story, a travelogue, or a fictitious airplane magazine, but it is something new. I've enjoyed working on it so far. It's been a long time since I've gotten to make up a new thing.

And making things up is, as they say in France, "fun."

-Will

P.S. I'd feel bad for leaving you with so little, so here's a tiny taste of Dreadgod.

Minor SPOILER WARNING, because it is a line from the book, but it is still out of context and won't spoil much.

Ozriel stood next to the Vroshir, white hair flowing behind him, a satisfied smile on his face. “So Daruman told you I was weak, did he?”

Gerravon closed his eyes and remembered his life.

“Weaker,” the Reaper said. “He should have said weaker.”