Not that I have a lot of them for myself, mind you… well, okay. I do, yet I don’t.

Yes, that makes zero sense at all. Let me explain.

One of the weird things about growing up in state-run group homes for roughly 80% of your childhood is the lack of expectations they have for you. The very first home I was at a cranky staff worker lined us up (we were misbehaving or something, I don’t even remember what precipitated this) and walked past us and started labeling us one by one. “Dead, Jail, or Homeless” were given to each kid as she passed by. Oddly enough, none of her options were “stable” or “successful.” It left a lasting impression on me as a kid because I’d been labeled as one of the “dead” kids. She then told us all that this was the expectation the state had for us before we were 25. There was no room for argument. We tried denying and arguing, she shouted us down. Every statistic said that children of violence or assault were more likely to become what created them, and she was telling us this was what would happen to us. No questions, no arguments. This was our future, enjoy.

Kind of messed up, right?

I don’t know what happened to all those other kids in the home (it was a looooong time ago) but I know the whole “dead” label stuck with me as I bounced from group home to group home. It made me think she was absolutely right when, at 12, I was told I was ineligible to be adopted by a foster parent because my mother refused to give up her parental rights to me (later, when the state came to collect child support from her for having to raise me to adulthood, she endlessly blamed me for it).

So… expectations? Naw, man. I’m just happy to still be alive. When I tell people I didn’t expect to live past 25, I’m not kidding at all. I fully expected to be dead by then. 30 was a shock. Now over 45 and still going (albeit with a current cancer diagnosis but hey, still beats 25) I’m just as shocked as everyone else when I see myself with a moderately successful writing career. Or succeeding in anything, really. No expectations, and yet… deep dark where I don’t like to admit it, I have personal expectations for myself.

Not for glory, no, but from a deep-seated and earnest sense of spite towards the woman who had predicted I would be dead by 25. Yes, all my success can be laid at the feet of spite. I’m out to prove her wrong, all the other staff who stood by and let her say that, to all the staff who “restrained” me when I was acting out, the ones who beat the hell out of me with wire hangers because I didn’t want to fold my clothes but hang them up instead… yeah.

My expectations are to continue to defy that one single expectation, to do the complete opposite and succeed to spite it. To be better.

Yeah, I don’t have a lot of expectations. I have a single one, but it encompasses all of what I do. So like I said up top, I don’t have a lot of expectations for myself. Just the one.

But man, is it a good one.

There’s still time to preorder Quintus Fox: Bounty Hunter! Have you placed your order yet?

Throughout his long and storied career, Quintus Fox has done a little bit of everything. But as the wild frontier civilizes, people like Quintus – and those whom he pursues – will be nothing more than relics of a turbulent past.

To make ends meet, Quintus must take jobs he might think were beneath him, but sometimes a man must swallow his pride and make a deal with the devil to take care of his ship and his crew, especially when opportunities are slim.

Worse, sometimes the devil has your commcode… and he won’t take no for an answer.