I shouldn't be writing anything at this time to you. But it's ok. I don't have anything to write. Apart from the fact that I might be sending Dear Dr Filth in for a writing competition, under Flash fiction, for this Platform magazine event. If I can brew up something for the rest of the categories, I might as well do that.
I have to also come up with this piece I've been meaning to write on IPL for the old paper, but I need some time for that. Time before the clown starts to jump on my head at night. But I need to get that done soon.
So well I have to cover my very first book launch tomorrow for the rut. It's grumpy ol Sir Vidia I meet. And he's a rotten prick -- who I had an opportunity to meet when I started out. Luckily for me he was pissed at the organisers, and I got my story. Then another when his book, Magic Seeds, was launched, when he declared that he was done with writing and that was his last book.
And that's about all.
So this is something different I'll be up to, after being in for solitary for 2 weeks. Apart from that love's low. Same old jokers, same old beautiful-yet-unattainable dames and that old luck that frowns when you hope.