There's a kind of resonance effect when you read a book -- telepathy in action, as the author's mental state produces some similar state inside your head. I love the way I think with lucid logic when I read Richard Dawkins, and it would be nice to think that some dampened harmonic extends into my post-reading cognition. (With Richard Feynman, you can only feel intelligent while actually reading his stuff. Afterwards, I'm like, what was all that again?)

So the latest novel to produce that lovely feeling for me is Terry Pratchett's latest. And I don't even like football. So there. It's great that he can still do the biz.

Meanwhile, as I try to adjust to my very-nearly-almost-there-full-time writer status, I realize the truth of Heinlein's dictum (as mentioned a little while back) that writers' lives are boring. Or at least, the only interesting stuff (to an observer) is what writers do when they're not writing.

I'm trying to justify my looking forward to Spooks airing on BBC1 tomorrow night. (It's the Season 8 opener, and just what did happen to Harry?) This, from someone whose normal advice is to switch the TV off and read a book or do something physical.

Oh, well. Did I mention that I got kicked in the knee some three months back, during training? Slowly healing, back to being able to do 500 Hindu squats, and sticking to 300 most nights. Nice to progress. Anyone who's rehabbing, or becoming fit after being the opposite, you got my sympathy!

Currently writing: Transmission, book 2 of the Ragnarok trilogy. Still in the early stages. Just letting the words come out as I see the scenes slowly happen. No pressure yet.


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