Life, what? You decide to go along one path and then something presents itself which indicates that it would be better to go back the way you came and choose another. Obviously the New Black Dress look is not a good idea if it is going to hurt peoples' eyes to look at it, or make it impossible to read. So for the moment it's back to white. But I have a cunning plan, which may require that I consult with a certain bloggiste of my acquaintance who has a starry night background, but the text itself is black on white. But if it involves doing something complicated I might not bother.
The Writing is not going straightforwardly. As if it would. Leaving a novel-in-progress for any length of time is never a good idea, it can lose warmth, grow cold and die on you, I've had it happen before. You have to keep feeding it with your attention and your words and I haven't been doing this, sustained effort of that kind being scuppered by long aftermath post-swine flu, and then another 24-hour thing. Also, the new flat-by-the-sea, a lovely thing, but requiring much attention before it can be habitable. Stuff. I am gathering some bits and pieces of poetry and a couple of stories for the sending off, but there are too many unfinished scraps lying around or lost in the hard disc disaster of last year.
I come back to it all, though - the big story, the little stories, the scraps. And to the blogging. And (did I mention this?) Shrink. Yes, he and I are an item again, for the time being. I think there is probably a persistent streak in me. My colours may change, but I remain
Reading the Signs