I haven’t been as good and forthcoming with the blog posts as I should have been. It’s because I’m writing fiction and, therefore, couldn’t give a fuck about anything else, including my job, my fitness level, my mother’s aching for a chat, and the length and condition of my hair. Were there not other people relying on me to bring home the bacon, I would most likely have been holed up for the last couple of months, under a blanket, under a boulder, blissfully flipping words between m...
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