My guess is that most of you did not even know he was sick.

Sadly, the great filmmaker, Otto Biedermeier has died, and it is perhaps parody that killed him.

And it is for that reason alone that his death is the subject of the sudden novel I have just completed. You see, I was happily in the midst of another story when the news reached me. There seemed to be nothing else to do but put other matters aside and pursue the truth of it. He would have done the same for me.

The year 2016 was a tough one. Still, it was better than I deserved. Howbeit, Otto didn’t make it through. I thought the reason might be important to some.

As most years do, 2016 started in the year before, when I first discovered Angel’s Envy. The Bourbon’s are a malicious lot—those that are not delicious. For some, their revenge is best served cold but the best are better than the finest of whiskeys, and Angel’s Envy is to my taste one of those. You can drink it neat as I do, or as sloppily as you like. However you do, it lubricates what is dry.

It is easy for me to believe in a forgiving God, because I have so much to be forgiven for. And because I have discovered Angel’s Envy in a time of need. I’m thinking that was meant to be. But Otto had a pass, his own ‘Letters of Transit,’ as it were, and might have made it out alive. But he chose another course. And the angel’s sang.

Now I’m back to my exposition of The Republic of Books, a rather nice place to be, withal. Too nice, perhaps, and difficult to leave but for the occasional death. Perhaps sufficient bourbon will see me through this next annum and to that nettled tale complete at last.

In the mean time—that being evenings when the mental juice has died up and all that is left is the sheen on the glass of my ounce or two—I continue to try my limited patience in the court of last appeal, the getting of The Knight’s Tale published through Createspace, as I did more than a year ago with The Dark Heart of Night. This is a task seemingly well beyond my grasp so I will need to reach exceedingly. And once I have that done, perhaps the other tales that live now in the dropbox of dreams past will be easier to do as well, or even better, if I might. Though I would like to hear the angels sing, they have little to envy here just yet. Here there is just the work.

With Otto Biedermeier gone, there is no excuse now not to get this done. Unless I look for one.