Rest day

from the novel yesterday, while I went to Jan Cornall's Draft Buster workshop, which is probably the main reason the novel writing has gone so well this year (overall, I mean—let's not talk about this last week).

We had a fast-writing marathon, and I used it to start on the short story, which is a thing of bastardised family history, with added fairies, lots of fiendlish fiddle-playing (that bit's not fictional) and, as I discovered, a significant river or stream nearby at every crucial piece of action.

Also had a good whinge about how hard writing/life/everything is, and got lots of sympathy, which is, I know, despicable of me, but seems to help clear the brain. :)

Today we go from 10 to 4 again, this time reading out bits for feedback; I suppose I'll take along a piece of novel. *grumble*

Slept through the Tour last night—don't know if I'll be able to resist tonight, though—they'll be in the mountains. Mm, other people's pain and suffering, mm.