"Discreet as a dead owl."
There is a rough draft of Fellow Passengers sitting on the table in front of me. It needs polishing, a new title, and the end wants torquing - all this will come when I know what the the Train looks like. And some of its denizens. (No, Mat you may not put a certain corduroy-clad fiddler in the carriage.) It strikes me that I'm no longer waiting for the Train; quite the opposite now. My imagination has been hibernating a bit; I worked on The Fernery instead. A desultory count of two hundred words yesterday.
In better news, I've sold A Black Dog to Stone Telling! So there's one in the eye for you, Shuck. You won't be followng me out tonight (drinks with John H, hopefully Joel). I think four poems sold this year, one story, one reprint? That's not too shabby, I think; I'll try and outdo myself next year.
Martin is down in Medway this weekend, visiting family. I'm missing him and his attempts to translate Gaudete into Klingon. I only know the Steeleye Span version - I may've challenged him to translate All About My Hat too, but I don't think he'll go that far for me.
In better news, I've sold A Black Dog to Stone Telling! So there's one in the eye for you, Shuck. You won't be followng me out tonight (drinks with John H, hopefully Joel). I think four poems sold this year, one story, one reprint? That's not too shabby, I think; I'll try and outdo myself next year.
Martin is down in Medway this weekend, visiting family. I'm missing him and his attempts to translate Gaudete into Klingon. I only know the Steeleye Span version - I may've challenged him to translate All About My Hat too, but I don't think he'll go that far for me.