Barry knows best

[desperance]

I must have been terribly wicked in a previous life, for there is no rest in this one. Having finished the first draft of the first Steampunk!Mars story, I am obliged to start the first novel. I've written a thousand words this afternoon, and I've just reached the point where I'd really quite like my wife to come home with her carload of writers'-group friends, so I could call it a day and open a bottle of wine and, y'know. Not write for a while.

Barry is with me in this. Barry is in my lap, as it happens, which makes the whole typing thing very difficult anyway, and thinking rather more so. Cats need fuss, apparently; and fuss is antipathetic to thought. 'Scuse me, I must pick fluff from his toenails. No rest, I tell you, none...