from a place of wrath and tears
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Turns out I mistook the beginning of a sinusitis for a hangover. Haha, ain't that funny.
See I'm laughing, so I'm neither as depressed as I thought I was.
Anyways, I figured I'd tackle this sinusitis thing before it swamps my head with all kinds of snot by being productive. First I went and plucked the last of the blackberries. It's not much, but they're real ripe and juicy.
And then you can go here for a non-review on Midwinter.
I considered being so productive as to post a thoughtful comment over at Mark Newton's Forgotten Tomes post, because, you see, I am terrible with books. I think it has to do with the way my brain makes stories. Finishing a book is to my brain as much catharsis as a nice dream with a solid ending. And then *poof* the story goes. When the stories are good, stuff sticks around. A name or two. A really good scene. Atmosphere. But nothing solid enough to be able to give someone a recap of what the book was about.
But since I've now written all I really need to say on the subject, why should I bother, dear digiblips? Reread the previous paragraph if you're addicted to my usual logorrheic self. Me, I've got a kitchen to clean, preserve pots to get up out of the cellar, some more fencing club stuff to sort out, and a ton of grapes to process. No really, I think I've still got 2 more tubs on the vines, but these will keep me busy all evening as it is:
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