Dog Rattling Pheasant,
George Armfield Smith (1836-1875),
A fit of sneezing seized Calvin the Corgi as he bounced down the front stairs this morning. Imagine a slinky shaped like a dog.
My dog indentification continues.
Having flushed game, I'm yipping and yapping in vain pursuit, i.e. am hock-deep in revisions, dog hair and dirty dishes.
Could have said crotch-deep - but I don't write erotica.
Moot -- because I can't. But am glad I don't.
Recently read a review of a novel which made it obvious the writer had decended into pure porn, having decided that an endless sequence of sex scenes are a perfectly adequate substitute for a plot. Made me wonder if the elastic sides of that particular box had been stretched as far as they can go and are likely to snap back on on the genre.
Revision is something like running through an endless swamp. One teeters from one tussock to another, unsure what is solid and what is not. All the time terrified that a single mis-step will dump you into quicksand and rejection will close over your staring eyes and twitching head with impersonal finality. To be truthful -- which isn't publically wise, I know -- I'm betting on the quicksand.
All the news isn't horrible. Saw last week that after snow storms swept the country, bobbies in England used their riot shield as sleds.