*I sit in front of a big, fancy chair in the middle of a big fancy old room while in front of a fire place while wearing red robes and smoking a pipe*

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Day One!

Alarm went off at 6:45. Hadn’t slept badly, and felt pretty ok. Excited for the con! No more sensation of still being on a plane, either, which was nice. No one else up yet. Had a shave and didn’t cut myself – great success. Not that I often cut myself shaving, but sod’s law says that when that does happen, it’s on an important day. So an important day where my face survives the morning intact is off to a good start.

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If you’re like me, you’ve accepted the fact that writing is a constant exercise of forgetting and then re-learning the single most basic goddamn rules every time. Technical stuff is easy—hey, commas go here, semicolons go there, slap in the butt and go get ‘em, tiger—but conceptual stuff?

Pff, fuck me. 

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Oh, watch him lie on his lounge, that old Aragón, that sharp fella. Covered in that velvet red robe of his, sipping idly from a cup of whiskey. There's a man you'd call a friend. There's a chap you'd call when there's trouble -- not because he can help, but he can stand there looking, make a witty quip.

You could kiss him, right now, but you won't. Because you know Aragón, that sharp fella. You know that cup looks like it's full of whiskey, but chances are, it's full of cum.

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Twice a week, I’m immortal, and my brain contains the entire fucking Universe. Alternatively, I die. Zero middle ground.

Let’s talk about stress, exhaustion, and the need for a creative outlet. But, you know, in a funny way.

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