Darling du early-morning

I had to write the intro for another man's stories. First draft was done some time ago, but I need to send it away now, so I'm rereading.

I barely remember doing this, I don't at all remember what I said, so it's all fresh and interesting and not-quite-me. I recognise the tone - I am Serious But Playful, when I comment on others' work - but the thoughts are no longer my own. Neither the sentences.

Hence, I'm allowed to grin with a very particular kind of pleasure (actually, a double pleasure: oh, that's cool followed by hey, did I do that?) when I hit a sentence I really like:

It calls for a marriage of style and content that can be neither forced nor arranged but has to be striven for, sweated over, cultivated like something as precious and rare as it is obdurate and slippery - and that's for starters, that's before it'll get into bed with you.

Sale!

Everything's a story. Here's this one:

Some while back, I was asked to read at the Blue Room, a long-established Newcastle venue (which has moved about a bit, and I'm not sure it's ever actually been in a blue room; mostly it's in a pub. Which I like). And I wasn't sure what to read, and I only had ten minutes which is not enough to introduce and then read a chunk of a longer piece; so I wrote something specific for the occasion. Sort of a ghost story.

It's very short, under 2000 words, and it's called "Parting Shots"; and I haven't done anything with it until now. Well, until two months ago, when I sent it to Strange Horizons just in case. Who bounced it last week, saying "I kept feeling like there was a lot more going on under the surface that I was missing," at which I nodded snidely wisely and decided to leave it as an open question, whether that was a criticism of them or me.

And then I left it again, for I am often heedless of my own advice (keep stories moving! if they come back, send them out again, same day! etc). This morning, though, I remembered that I had to send a revised introduction to Pete Crowther at PS Publishing; and got his usual swift response, very pleased with it. So I had another thought - catch him while he's feeling warm towards me, like that - and sent him "Parting Shots". He's published my ghost stories before, as well as other stuff, and I thought he might enjoy it.

I sent it at 13:04. His response, at 13:42 -

( cut for modesty )

Snacking

I am - I may have mentioned? - fond of snacking as I write. It's almost a dependency (*looks back with yearning to the days of smoke*). At this time in the evening, I go savoury: cured meats, my own pork scratchings, like that. Sometimes I'll fry up a plate of croutons; I like crunch.

Tonight - well. I have some farm-fresh organic sugar-snap peapods in the fridge. Also some parma ham. I was just thinking, peas and bacon go so well together; I could steam the peapods lightly, not enough to lose their crisp, and wrap the ham around them, and hey presto. Finger-food! Snacks!

Or is that just totally overkill, for a desktop nibble...?

ETA: Save your rude rebuttals; the question was, of course, entirely rhetorical. No sooner imagined than attempted. Y'know what? This is gorgeous. I may indeed be a genius. Mac can have the pea-stems. (You think he won't eat them, but he will.)

Now, I'd best write a novel, to justify this luxury...