Yargh. Getting over a cold. Nostalgic for the days when ‘having a cold’ meant I could crawl into bed and read and drink something hot. Now? Not so much. Unless I’m vomiting up a lung, bedrest just isn’t an option.

I have copies of my book! Have been carrying one around with me like a talisman — that’s the nice thing about being a paperback original: you might not get the respect, at least initially, of a hardcover or a trade paperback, but you are portable, dammit — and taking it out at random moments to gaze stupidly at it. But today I just took a break from the whole emotional roller-coaster of having a book coming out — one moment you’re up, one moment you’re down, one moment the world’s at your feet, the next moment it’s all just this hideous horrible failure that’s going to come crashing down in the most humiliating way possible. Today I just decided, Enough, and pretended to have a Zen-like calm.

And on a completely unrelated note, the HBO series ROME kicks serious ass. The episode last night? “Cut off his thumbs.” Crikey.


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