I'm farting about looking at potential designs for the cover of the book that I have out together of the ten short stories I've been writing that I'm furiously procrastinating about publishing that might show me up to be the interloper who cannot write that has crept in, uninvited, and squats under the table, wrapped in a hanging corner of the cloth, licking ruby smears of jam from her palms and hoping against hope that nobody will notice, which frankly is insane because otherwise who will know, who will read and who will say if there is any point?
To the incredible kind anonymous person who emails me weekly, this is your update.
I am editing the final couple of stories.
I will publish the collection on Kindle.
I will not bottle out, you will be reading them by the end of the year.
I bloody hope you like them after all this.
Otherwise, it is exam time. The bots have regressed and demand spoon-feeding of obscure historical facts, incomprehensible physics formulae to calculate the loss of heat through PVC windows (the horror!), tiny bite-sized Bakewell tarts and floppy, exhausted turns round the field as the dog wonders who is the most pathetic member of the family.
Edward has discovered a TV programme about men who live on a mountain and track leopards and make stuff out of old crap. He alone keeps the fires of sanity burning.
You're all well out of it.
