Nine days. I reckon it’s a new record of absence here. Hoping that absence makes the heart grow fonder – and not that, as the poet had it, absinthe makes the tart grow fonder: I have the absinthe but am short on tarts these days (and have, of necessity, converted to Lay’s®).
[What happened last Saturday that, overnight, the number of views shot up to 138 from the usual 30-50 average? I suspect someone at Facebook must have alerted friends to my assessments of SEA Write finalists. Welcome.]
Blame this absence without leave(s) on excess work and subsequent migraine – three attacks in a week, including this afternoon. Nothing much: the usual 20min of disco lights in the eye, the usual two pills of Cafergot and the usual sedatives effects. Hardly any pain in that woolly head except when I cough or sneeze, but it’s vexing, what.
Blame it also on that foot, which still needs to be held up, not because of last month’s broken bone (that’s almost ancient history by now) but because of an earlier complain: a tendency of the feet to swell when I rest on my arse, so I have to cut short sessions in front of the laptop which, in spite of its name, only takes to the table and won’t sit on my lap.
(This is due to my innocence: to preserve the battery, I never used it, and when I finally tried to, it was flat and wouldn’t recharge. Now I know better, but have yet to buy a replacement.)
Blame it as well on frustrating mishaps. Among other chores, I’ve worked almost simultaneously in the past few days on the creation of two e-books, bilingual both, and by the same author. They should have been ready for sale and blithely advertised here over the weekend except for last-minute glitches in that dreary shambles, my website’s back office. If all goes well, in a couple more days … I’ll keep you posted.
And then, it’s that time of the month, my Gavroche periods (well, no, actually I go mostly for yellow highlighting over peccadilloes, and use red only for howlers or my own (im)pertinent comments).
In fact, I’ve just decided to end that side of self-inflicted overwork by the end of the current cramps. I’ll tell Philippe presently.
The remaining time has been employed going through the offerings of that Northeastern writer, Phoo Kradart, who really works hard to earn his pen name, resulting in quite a ‘stack of paper’. After his first three stories (average length: 12 000 words), I asked him whether he could send me ‘anything shorter, of less than four thousand words’. He obliged: one is 4 018 words long, another 8 650 and a third 9 651. And none as interesting as the first three ones, even though the two that were printed earned him a literary distinction. I’ll write more about him some other time: there’s dinner to prepare and I must give a break to the old legs.