Dancehall's husband, who we'll call Tolstoy (my kids once saw a drawing of Tolstoy on the back of a book and thought it was him), sent this to me. Delightfully weird, strangely addictive. I've seen it at least 10 times now. It haunts my dreams.
Broke 50,000 words on the New Novel last night. Feels like I'm turning the corner on the middle third. The move slowed me down a tad--I took two weeks off entirely from writing, as I was just too unfocused--but logistics have more to do with it. I'm having to pull the various strands of the novel together now, and with 10 narrators, it's careful work.
Hope to be done by Christmas, but that's probably wishful thinking.
I've got a Major Operation coming up on Tuesday. Nothing life-threatening, or even health-threatening, but I am told to expect several weeks of pain and discomfort. They're removing a lengthy bit of something I shall not name but which rhymes with "spolon." On the plus side, I'm sure to get excellent drugs to help me through.
I'll have lots of free time on my hands. Expect much drug-addled blogging.
Side note to Tolstoy: Shhhhh!