An Initial Murmuring from the Vault...

All this is very odd indeed: I'm on a week's holiday from the library, which I intended to devote to finishing off a new short story. However, although I have been working very hard on said story - A Mansion of Silent Ravens - I have not been working as hard as I should be. Everything, whilst writing, will become a distraction to me: a row of books that need tidying (when I should be writing); dust on a shelf that must now, this instant, be wiped away (when I should be writing); browsing through books, which I haven't given a thought to in decades, but which suddenly become very enticing indeed, like blossoms with gorgeously alien hues and alluring perfumes (when I really should be writing); popping into the garden after lunch only to find, four hours later, that I'd been vigorously weeding and hoeing, pruning shrubs, dead-heading plants, and somehow washed all the garden ornaments (when I definitely should have been writing). And now I find that I have set up a blog, a mere couple of days after commenting to a friend that I'd occasionally thought about it, but rejected the idea because the word 'blog' wasn't precious or exquiste enough, a positively ugly word, in fact.

O well... Something else to distract me, I suppose.