Here I sit, thrumming bony fingers on my desk. No word on progress in retrieving data from my fried hard drive. And after repeated phone calls to the water works to have them answer for an outrageously priced water bill, the phone’s not ringing with said explanation.
Perhaps it’s some wry form of poetic justice that I’m also waiting on some promised comments from reviewer/readers of a WWII novel I’ve written, and – hopefully – will see in print before year’s end. The comments I’ve received so far on the novel are an odd amalgamation of identified typos, added narrative that someone or other feels will make the novel more informative. Not so when they recommend sticking a bit on extraneous narrative in the midst of a scene’s dialogue. Someone out there doesn’t understand fiction writing at all.
Ah, well. It’s all in the spirit of turning out a good book.
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