My Blog sits me down for a difficult heart-to-heart, questioning my loyalty, sanity, and ability to survive without posting imaginary conversations with inanimate concepts. I have to admit, it has a point. Not that I’m admitting it to My Blog.
On what felt like the first and long-awaited spring day of the year, I think about how the things we do in this season could also be applied to fiction that’s been in hibernation for any period of time.
(And if anyone dares to make a comment about how writing a blog post about something instead of actually doing it is the ultimate procrastination, I will sic Tark and Mara on you.)
We can’t get enough of these modern historical TV dramas! Such feisty heroines! Such swashbuckling storylines! Such bosoms! Seriously, there are bosoms everywhere! Wouldn’t it be fabulous to have such excitement in real life?
But hold on a second… what would this mean for your olfactory well-being? Your ultra-modern duplex? Your HONOUR?
I have some things to tell you. They might even be interesting. However, none of these things would warrant a full post on their own, so I’m employing a cunning and never-before-seen trick of grouping them together. Today’s post concerns political tactics and vote-bashing; the Dublin Writer’s Conference; the fiction of literary fiction, and why it’s SO difficult to be right all the time.
You love the cops in crime novels. So careworn, and yet mysterious. They have money, and yet never spend it on themselves. Granted, being married to one is just asking for trouble. But you could just share a house with one, right? That would be exciting, and spice up your humdrum existence no end!
Let’s take a look, and see if you might want to think this through a little more…