There is a power in this universe which, when implemented, is more detrimental to a writer such as myself than any illness or disaster.
That power is the time- and concentration-succubus that is reading. Yes, a well-penned novel can destroy plans set in solid stone, utterly obliterate any hope of productivity or interaction with the real world. That, in short, is why I didn't write anything yesterday. I was too tired from reading The Colour of Magic by Terry Prachett. Rather, I was finishing it. Because it was excellent. If anyone is struggling to think of Christmas present ideas (you probably all are. I apologize, I can be somewhat hard to buy for) then I may hint at an Amazon gift card. No need for frivolous spending, a mere £3 will buy me a new book. And I promise, I won't judge how much you love me on how much money you give me. Absolutely not.
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