A bundle of spite in a black leather coat.

Well, that’s mostly true. Autumn is showing signs of arriving at bleeding last, so the leather coat is out of summer mothballs, and I’ve got energy again. Summer is just fatal to me. I get nothing done. I’ve had another one of those ideas that everyone I mention it to wants to see done, which almost certainly means it’ll die on it’s arse, so in an attempt to make sure it goes somewhere, I’m going to get together with my brother, and as many mad bastards as we can rope into it, and try and make a short film out of it.

At the moment, I have nothing but bad scratches of tonal dialogue, and a small pile of source material to go from, so expect to hear nothing more of this until there’s actually something written down.

In the meantime, I’m still contemplating NaNoWriMo – if I got for it, I suspect that I’ll fall a way short of the target, but it might kick the dust off some of my more painfully atrophied writing synapses. But something that gets me back into the practice of writing daily cannot be a bad idea.

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