Sorry about the slow week, guys. I’ve been spending evenings holed up writing, and that much time alone with the page always lends the rest of my life an unreal, hollow quality.
I don’t want to jinx my incremental progress by ruminating further, so I’ll just say I can’t get worked up about anything else right now — not a forthcoming novel from Dan Rhodes, not the speculation that Shakespeare might’ve died of eye-area lymphoma, not the difficulty of using a Chinese keyboard, and not the Bush administration’s unfair competition with The Onion.
GMB stopped by a few minutes ago.
“Yeah, I got nothing,” I said. I blinked at her like a stoned toad.
“I see your nothing,” she said, “and raise you negative one.”
We stood together in our less-than-nothingness, and then she returned to her desk.
So I have nothing else this week. All hail Annie Reid, who steps in tomorrow.