Okay, stuff has settled down a bit around these parts, at least temporarily. Which means the return of two things that are vital to maintaining my precarious grasp on sanity.
Thing One: Reading.
Before Kat's medical woes, I'd just begun to dig into Stuart Neville's The Twelve, a book I'd been looking forward to reading for quite some time. Then all hell broke loose, and I couldn't give it the attention it deserved, so I set it aside in favor of some lighter fare (read: stuff I didn't care if I was only half-reading in hospital waiting-rooms). Now I'm back at it, and I've got to say, every damn page I find something new that blows me away. I'm trying to take my time and savor it, but believe me, it resists time-taking. It is just that freaking good. Oh, and on deck? A Bad Day for Sorry by Sophie Littlefield. Damn, am I spoiled. (Oh, and The Wheelman. Totally going to get to it, Josh, provided I'm not crushed to death by the weight of my TBR pile in the interim.)
Thing Two: Writing.
I'm not saying that the WIP's been at a total standstill of late, but thanks to loads of real-world craziness, progress has been slow. This weekend, though, that has begun to turn around. Oh, and I also managed to write a mess of notes for the sequel (book three of my Collector cycle, after Dead Harvest and The MS That Shall Not Be Named), as well as some ideas for a standalone I've been pondering for years. Holy hell, am I happy to be writing again -- really writing, not just staring at the screen and sweating blood. When it's going well (hell, when it's going at all), there's really nothing else I could ever imagine doing with my life. How many people can honestly say they know exactly what they want to be when they grow up?
Oh, and Bonus! Thing Three? Quite possibly tattoos. I'm just saying.