I could lie and say I've been writing novels, but actually I've been reading them. Mostly Balogh and they've all blended together in my mind. Lots of healing outdoor passive sex for deeply wounded people who hold back especially when they really should just say what the hell they're thinking. I do like her work but I should not have read so much of it at once.
My own books have slowed to a crawl. Too daunting. Plus at the moment I don't like my own style. I keep trying to change it but once I really start plugging away, the way I write slides back to what I'm used to. And then I slide into self pity and then we all slide into bed to watch Cash Cab...or read another Mary Balogh. Time to slide out of here! Time to go running! Time to find other people! I spend too many hours alone with snoring dogs!
Now if that isn't gory detail.....well. (To understand why gory is important, see last few comments attached in post below. Every time I stop to think about putting in a new entry on this blog, I come up against that word. Chum. To you my poor, starving shark readers who gather, flapping your impatient fins at the edge of my blog, hoping for another installment, churning up the waters)...
I did just write a love letter to my family, but I want them to love me back so I don't think I'll post it.
today's observation of the internet (actually earlier this week so it's ancient history) written like a USAToday story:
We're sadder and more upset about Natasha Richardson than we expected to feel about a stranger we never met and don't quite remember seeing in any particular movie.