Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety-Jig

It's always nice to come home. We miss our bed, our pillows, our cats, our toothbrush glass for cryin' out loud.

I'm coming to the exciting end of "The Killing Moon" by Chuck Hogan. It's so tense-making that I can't read it before I go to sleep. At our hosts, I picked up a book, a memoir of being a refugee fleeing the Russians in the last days of World War II, and that became full of suspense, as well. Maybe one should always travel with Proust, or Henry James, or a writer that may induce sleep, someone who writes marvelously, but is decidedly NOT a page-turner.

Now I have no more excuses for not putting Festival Madness in the mail to the publisher. One more pass, just one more pass. There must be words that could be more precise, emotions more finely rendered, scenery described "just so."

The friends we see never ask about my writing. Might as well be digging ditches or rolling bandages. I am used to this. Maybe only writers talk shop about the current work in process.

This week, the biggest decision is whether to attend the auction and which cookies to put on the Christmas baking list. And of course, which book to do next. It's looking like the German one, but I can't tell for sure. It's nice to have choices, but if I didn't, I'd be well into the next one. Not to decide is to decide. Grrr.

There will be delicous Christmas cookies on the web site, soon, so don't be shy about visiting. And watch for Grapeshot's ten tips for computer security. Seems to be a lot of phishing lately. I'm always amazed that anyone falls for it. You don't, do you? Never ever give anyone banking, credit card of personal information as a result of an email. Don't click onto web sites from emails. Go there the traditional way. wwwdot whatever.

Onward, without too much sucking it up,

Grapeshot