Forgive the radio silence, it's been what, four days. I'm working right now toward finishing a book (writing) and I'm so close that I can taste it. I bet that this weekend I wrote more words that you spoke. I'm not joking.
And I've been knitting a lot too. I've got, let me count . . . four things on the needles, but that's not counting all the stuff that's dead in the water (and I'm feeling like re-starting a lot of them, but I'm resisting). Four things really isn't that much, but it feels like a lot. I'll have to do one of those "On My Needles posts" soon. Maybe Wednesday . . .
It probably doesn't help that I've got about half a cold this week. Not enough so that way I could reasonably call myself sick, make some tea and head off to bed. I'm just sick enough to feel miserable as I move through the day to day stuff. Though I've been getting a little bit better, it's just slow.
In short I really just don't know why I'm bothering to write this. I could be knitting something, I could be finishing one of those four things. Why? Why? Why? It's probably because it's nice to write as ME for once. Not this character or that, but ME! I swear, if you're a narcissist who's looking for a cure, just write a book in the third person. It's the last time I do it for something this big. I much prefer first person.