Is an awfully long time to go postless. I had to get over some things before I could say something with pretensions of usefulness, though: a nasty cold that reminded me too much of the start of my late father’s five year cough, for one. It’s strange how I sound so little like him, until I hear myself cough.
I also find it strange how some emotional traumas get in the way of writing, and some don’t. I could write through my parents’ final decline and death, but I find some of the current uncertainty my family is dealing with paralyzing, as if all my spare background processing is being used up and nothing is left over to be creative with. Frustrating.
At least some notions have crystallized concerning the next faerie novel–and I’ve been reading more. That’s probably a good sign. Some Steinbeck, some Roddy Doyle (thanks for the suggestion, Martin!), some history of Irish internecine warfare.