I need to make it to the Hay today, to proofread Agents of Dreamland, and I need to make it despite my shitty mood and the cold weather. I can't proofread in this house. I can hardly write here. The Hay lifts my spirits a little. It's clean and warm and open. It's the memory of a better age.
I wish I could say that yesterday was a very productive day, but it wasn't. I did, though, have a good conversation with my lit agent.
And I suppose that's all for now. I want to write something about the importance of role playing to my fiction, but I'm not up to that task at the moment. And we need to get out of here, before my resolve fails and I go back to bed.