I’ve just received the text from #2 son, informing me that my desk, chair and filing cabinet were delivered. I’m trying not to ‘freak the straights’ (baby), by lapsing into a brief-yet-spirited happy-dance, but it’s hard not giving in to the urge.
So tonight’s primary task will be rebooting my bedroom from a fornicatorium fallen into disuse to a bustling office, where violence, starting behind where the eyes used to be, pours out the fingers, through an abused keyboard and finishing up on a hard-drive, overflowing with avant-filth.
And after that, I’m going to start work on revising ‘1919’ sitting upright for the first time since july or so.
It’s weird, revising something I wrote so long ago (five years, to be precise). In that time, my writing’s changed so much as has my romantic focus, I suppose.
At that time, the ideal was the 24/7 M/s relationship and the hip fashions were, on the one hand, Honorifics and the other Female Supremacy.
However, times have changed – and so have I – where a dream is proven to be impossible, I’ve been able to let go of it and move on. Kicking and fucking screaming, I admit, but yeah. I did eventually let go.
Why not use your face to read the novel that started it all? 1919 (inside)
If Scottish literature can be thought of as an elderly, overweight gentleman with savage diarrhea, 1919 (inside) is the land-mine he just stepped on.
Do it – do it NOW – for the children, eh? think of the children.