Now I know I'm broken

[desperance]

My agent phoned an hour ago, to say how much he liked the new book. This is a good thing, and ought to make me happy.

And yet, since then I have spilled cooked rice all over the kitchen floor, shouted at Barry, bitten my tongue (not a metaphor: metaphors don't bleed) and generally find myself absolutely at the ragged edge of functionality.

I am going to give up on the day altogether and retreat to the sofa with a bottle or two of wine, and no ambition beyond making a better fist of tomorrow.

Comments

[davidbarnett.livejournal.com]

I've also been kicking around a semi-autobiographical work with the working title "10 Glastonburys" about the relationship between two friends as played out over a decade's worth of Glastonbury festivals, with some weird stuff in there about Dionysus partying every year and one of them eventually joining his endless Bacchanal (to mix myths)... but reading that back to myself just now it sounds like unselleable guff!