We had a weekend away at the beach. That was lovely. There were birds, and there was gentle sunshine, and sand and shells, and friends and a son and his guest, and lovely food and wine. Best of all, swimming in the sea washed away my head cold, and now I can breathe through both nostrils, and sleep without dreaming of being suffocated by collapsing buildings or lead blankets.
Four more weeks of full-time day-job to go, beyond which there's a forest of short-story deadlines and a NSW Writer's Fellowship for which I've promised to kick the next novel into action. And then comes July, which is Printz-trip month, during which I'll roam the northeast corner of the US. And then it's...probably back to a different day-job, if there are any left by then. With a Plan in train, by then, I hope, to keep moving on the novel.
In the meantime, walk and commute and take notes and put in those hours at work and sleep. Reading Brian Dibble's Doing Life, a biography of Elizabeth Jolley. It's not a cheerful read, but it's brighter than If This Is A Man. *wintry smile*