BMW says it may be available by the end of the decade, without the nanotech, of course. (But with everything else, color changing paint, heads up virtual displays.) And remember: If you have to ask for the price, you can't afford it!
As a wannabe writer, I’ve been churning out weekly stories. Some short, some longer. Used to be called pulp fiction or dime-store fiction. The kind you’d find folded between your Sunday paper and a black-and-white crime. Nobody reads newspapers anymore, so here I am on Substack, making so much money. My millionaire brothers laugh at me.
But I don’t do it for fame or fortune. I do it because it’s a blast. Because I’m dying to find out what my characters will do next. The author’s notes? They’re real. Only Matt would leave a pregnant queen with a belly the size of a pumpkin waiting. Figures.
Or maybe I'm tired of streaming giants, tossing out eight episodes of superb storytelling, then canceling it on a whim, characters I had invested my time with, gone forever with no payoff. That’s not the fate of my characters. They stick around. They wake me up at 2 a.m., demanding their stories be told.
...Anyway, this got too long. Time to take my meds.
I. Want. That. Car.
BMW says it may be available by the end of the decade, without the nanotech, of course. (But with everything else, color changing paint, heads up virtual displays.) And remember: If you have to ask for the price, you can't afford it!
Maybe we could test drive on their little obstacle course?
ME too. Then we could race?!
I am looking forward to the answers. My sympathies for the recent tragedies in Minnesota.
As a wannabe writer, I’ve been churning out weekly stories. Some short, some longer. Used to be called pulp fiction or dime-store fiction. The kind you’d find folded between your Sunday paper and a black-and-white crime. Nobody reads newspapers anymore, so here I am on Substack, making so much money. My millionaire brothers laugh at me.
But I don’t do it for fame or fortune. I do it because it’s a blast. Because I’m dying to find out what my characters will do next. The author’s notes? They’re real. Only Matt would leave a pregnant queen with a belly the size of a pumpkin waiting. Figures.
Or maybe I'm tired of streaming giants, tossing out eight episodes of superb storytelling, then canceling it on a whim, characters I had invested my time with, gone forever with no payoff. That’s not the fate of my characters. They stick around. They wake me up at 2 a.m., demanding their stories be told.
...Anyway, this got too long. Time to take my meds.
Matt here: Stupid author thinks he’s in control.
The bourbon burned going down.
So will every name on that list.
BOURBON!!!
I would do that car!
Your writer muscles are getting ripped with this story. Do not abandon it.
You are getting better every day. I am so glad you are my friend.