The more I've been thinking today about very good reasons for not writing, the more the wretched Muse has been insinuating its tongue into my ear. Lasciviously, natch.
I now have the opening for a kind of cyberpunky thing, provisonally entitled (well, dammit, I have to call the directory something, don't I?) Conclave. Don't hold your breaths, it won't be done by the end of November.
An idea for section 2 of Semirinal Dreams which has lain gathering dust for, oh, umpty years and with which I've been completely unable to do anything has suddenly gone *spoing* and I now know what it's about.
Seems like the more resolved I am not to do a thing, the more I am compelled to do it. Damn. Damn damn. Maybe I should resolve never to have a mended spine, never to get a really cool job, and never ever to see the people I'm really missing. I'm afraid, though, as with Murphy's Law, you can't fake it out.