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desperanceThis? Is like chiselling mist out of fog, this story. All it does is slither through my fingers. And I have an immovable deadline in three days' time, when I have to read it live to an audience at the Lit & Phil. (In striking-distance of Newcastle? Come to the Lit & Phil! Twelfth Night! Ghost stories! Mulled wine! Mince pies! etc. You know the routine.)
Right now I am so tempted to abandon it till morning, take the rest of this wine downstairs and slug in front of the fire with a book that somebody else had to write. The only thing keeping me up here is the comfort of the cats, whom I would disturb if I left now.
Right now I am so tempted to abandon it till morning, take the rest of this wine downstairs and slug in front of the fire with a book that somebody else had to write. The only thing keeping me up here is the comfort of the cats, whom I would disturb if I left now.