I posted this elsewhere:
I've just gone through my work in progress folder, and apart from Seraph, King of the Marsh, Albert's Day and Kempton, I've got four other short stories percolating. 'Gin' is loosely based around a true event from my ... well I'd guess you'd say adolescence. 'Dearly Beloved' is set in a boarding school. 'Mirror's Edge' is set in Yosemite, and 'Around and Around We Go' is weird. Maybe supernatural would suffice as a genre.
So ... I have all these ideas partially written, and I so want to work on something, yet I'm feeling fuddled, and yuk. I've spent hours today thinking about thinking - if that makes any sense. And now I feel like actually doing something, I should go to bed ... otherwise my body clock's going to be knackered.
M wants to change the name of the band, and oddly, I couldn't give two hoots. I had a feeling it was in the wind, and though we have talked about it before, I'm not reacting in the way I envisaged. I'm not leaping up and down, pouting - though that might be due to the sore throat. Bottom line: I'm not as rabidly attached to it as I thought I would be. Either that, or my doppelgänger is seething, and will explode in a psyoptic rage the next time we transmogrify, and eradicate half of the universe. Dunno.
The cat says meowllo.