Ingratitude, thy name is Felis Catus...

First I give them their breakfast, then I come upstairs to do an hour's work entirely for their benefit, for the better purchasing of kitty-litter and gushyfudz - and what do they do in the meantime?

Yes, that's right. The little beasts ambush the residue of last night's curry and eat all the chicken out of it. Snarl...

In other (and equally unsurprising) news, here's a happy review of Lace and Blade. Which thinks my story is all about the sex, which I don't at all, but hey. There's room for different readings.

Almost a metric

I have processed a neat half of this novel now - and lord, it's been slow work. A little extra foreshadowing, the odd loose end sewn in, but mostly I've just been cutting, snip-snip. On the micro level, recasting every other sentence in a shorter form. Thirteen thousand words gone thus far, out of what had been seventy-five. Those who believe that less is more will no doubt think it a better book for the lack of them. By their own criteria, of course, they will be right. Me? I can't tell any more. I am numb.

And hoping to move faster through the second half. Partly because I don't expect to find so much to cut - the second half of a book, at least a Brenchley book, is always tighter ab initio - but I will declare a deathmarch if I have to, just to get it done. I need it finished this week. I'm away on Monday next; I have a workshop to run (on flash fiction, ironically) at Middlesex University's LitFest on the Tuesday morning (to which I'm assuming all are welcome; booking details at the foot of the link), and then a couple of days in Henley. With the laptop, but not wanting to be doing this. Wanting this done, thank you, finished and away.