I'm reading Glass Soup, and I'm going to finish reading it, and it was a good Christmas present*. And it's not bad; it's not that he's gone somewhere downhill. That's just it: he hasn't gone anywhere. He's hanging around Austria doing the same things with dogs and death and dreams, and I just want him to go crazy and write a terrible book about deathless cat-owning Puerto Ricans who can't sleep, anything, anything not to be doing exactly the same thing again.
It is worth getting worse. It is worth writing something that might be terrible. It is worth it, to grow, to move, to risk, to do something else. Sure, we all have pet tropes and pet character-types, but enough, Jonathan Carroll, enough. Do something different. I can reread Outside the Dog Museum if I want to reread Outside the Dog Museum. I don't need to ask my relatives to pay out another $25 for you to rehash it for me. You had a better single note than Mercedes Lackey -- perhaps a whole chord progression, even -- but the greats know how to make a twelve-bar blues sound different and the same all at once, and apparently you don't, so write me a waltz, or I'm done.
*Major law of Mrissish life: good presents are not always good books.