I’ve been writing bad fiction for a long time. never had the courage to even try to polish it up enough to try selling it, or the lunacy of self publishing. Granted, I consider it self-indulgence and therapy in the same package, but I don’t think anyone would ever want to willingly read it. (it’s more or less shameless self-insert ‘slice of life’ drivel that explores the premise of ‘what happens if a race of anthropomorphic tigers decide to uplift our world to being a space-faring people, largely to expand their trade empire, and the ambassador falls in love with the narrator?’)
I never said it was good- that should have been obvious at the ‘shameless self-insert drivel’ phrase…
