So, a strange day today. Writing work consisted entirely of staring into space and hallucinating what happens next. It's rare for me to do that and not actually write words, but I know I can trust myself only to pause when it's right. (Sometimes I have to put a book aside for a few weeks before returning - that's happened on two, maybe three books. I only trust these feelings because they come so rarely.) It's Sunday, of course, but why would I take a day off entirely?
I've a read a bunch of books over the last couple of weeks - a lit'ry piece, a horror-thriller hybrid, a thriller, and one of Christopher Moore's insane, funny offerings: Island of the Sequined Love Nun. But the real prizes were this week. First, Al Reynolds' Terminal World, which is most excellently vivid, with gritty, bizarre and noir elements, a very unlikely love story, and a quest across a world that's not only weird, it's a genuine puzzle. Secondly, Barbara Kingsolver's The Lacuna, which I read to the midpoint this evening, and put down so I don't finish it too fast. Sumptuous writing, a delicious, spicy, hearty mix of words to create a story-feast.
And then Yvonne switched on the TV just as Sherlock was starting. Sherlock Holmes in a slick contemporary setting, written by Steve Moffat, and using a new television technique to illustrate his thought processes. Played as the sociopath the character always was, and, er, just like Dr Who...