It occurs to me that this might be a good time to work on some of these short stories, at least until my brain figures out that it's all used up, and collapses into the traditional puddinglike consistency for which I scheduled the month of July.
That Deathmosey is the opposite of a TARDIS. It looks bigger from the outside.
Damn, I'm glad it's July.
Now to get up, shower, walk the dog, pick peas, check last night's canning for seal, can or blanche and freeze the peas (depending on quantity), eat something, and decide what I will work on next. Possibly "Mobius Heart," which needs a better title, because it doubles as a novella AND as a book proposal, and as of now, I am out of contract with Spectra.
So I have to sell them some books if I want to keep eating.
Ahh, the relentless glamour of the literary life.