Books read this week. from sublime to riddikulus

I've  read three books from men this week – gay historicals, for Speak Its Name  - and it's great to find more and more guys in the genre. One of them was good, one was bloody marvellous and one was so bad I want to go back in time to before I read it and smack myself over the head for buying it in the first place. Half way through the book I had planned to give it one star, but when I finished it I was not  feeling even that charitable. Review up tomorrow.

I'm just happy that I read Elliott Mackle's fandabidosie "Captain Harding's Six Day War" afterwards because it had the effect of champagne sorbet on my brain's palate. It's not out until September but – seriously – pre-order it because it's so so so so so so so so so so so good and you know how rare it is that I say that kind of thing. i wish THAT review was going up tomorrow.

My next read is The Painting by Fiona Wallace, and I'm pretty confident that's going to be good—it came recommended by another, but I am also pretty sure it's going to break my heart in two.

Got into a nice rhythm at Dad's now. arrive at 10, make breakfast, put on any washing that needs doing. Deal with shopping if necessary, and any post that comes.

Settle down, "write" for a hour or until 1300. Go out for lunch—or cook lunch.  Or make something for the day I'm off, or for his supper. Do ironing. Write for an hour. ha ha.

Back at two – leave at 1630.

What do you do when you run out of people…

To give dedications to? Make people up? It just shows you  how few people I know when I have less than ten books out and have now run out of people.

I look at the huge lists of people/friends in books such as Jim Butcher's or GRRM's and realise that er, perhaps I should have more friends. Never been good at that trick, though, that's the trouble. I had ONE best friend through school from 11 onwards and didn't make any extra solid ones until I went to live in London. Many acquaintances and people who I knew for a little while, but ships that ultimately passed in the night, for however long their passing. I don't have the trick of staying in touch with people, I suppose.

My mother used to receive and send, (and I suppose it's the same with most normal people) Christmas Cards to dozens of people I'd never heard of, and people who she only heard of once a year via Christmas card and I never saw the point.  I wish I did, I feel perhaps there's a stratum of human existence that I'm unable to join, and I feel that about many things, such as hen-nights, window shopping, coffee mornings, small-talk. Perhaps authors have this disassociation, some of us, where we feel we are constantly looking through a plate glass window to observe humanity, pressing our noses up against it, but never actually being a part of it.

Woah. That's a bit much TMI, coming from me. No, I'm not maudlin, although it might sound it—just rather embarrassed that I am having trouble dedicating a book. Perhaps it's because this book was written quite a while ago before I made the many friends (that I do consider just as much friends as the few flesh and blood ones I've made) online.

I think I know who to this time, though. Gawd knows about the next one though! Perhaps I'll pick random names from world history. *snort * To Abraham Lincoln. You should have tried the events on page 110."