Van Gogh killed himself.
If you’ve read Oliver Black, you may know what I am referring to. One of the things I like to do is make passing comments in my stories, to things and topics that are from our world but different because of magic or alternate routes history took. Below is one from Sorcerer Rising:
Pain, raw unfiltered agony, ripped through the fabric of my existence. I saw futures that might happen and pasts that had failed to occur. I saw deities and devils, Valhalla and Hell, the jungles under the surface of the Moon, Atlantis under the sea, and the last of the Giants, The Whisperer, He Who Steps Lightly. I saw the Wyrm who sat in Jerusalem and Death Himself who waved me away like a child peaking at Santa. I saw him too, and to be honest Death’s reaction was the nicer of the two. I saw all the worlds in the Aether, the forms they would take, the forms that had been lost when it touched man’s mind.
I made one in Oliver Black that, on my way to work, I realized was a mistake. A reference to an entirely different artist and situation. One of the advantages to self-publishing though, is that I’ll be able to correct this. I’ll make the change, upload the file, and it will be corrected within a few hours. Granted, an editor might have caught the mistake, but it’s nice having that type of control, even if it’s sometimes to my detriment.