Shorties, everywhere I look...

No, our home has not been invaded by persons of diminutive stature. Instead it’s the curse of the procrastinating Muse of DOOM. AKA, 'piddle about with short stories, rather than get back into TSA'.

Which is worrying. After all, I have great faith in the power of the under-mind*, the ‘guys in the basement’ that do the thinking for me when I’m busy doing other things. Like trying to take over the world. Or thinking up a new word for ‘Gf********nk’. If I’m being unconsciously averted to TSA, does that mean that I’m not ready to go back to it yet? That I’ve not figured out enough to get back to the writing? That I’m a lazy bastard who’d rather sod about with a shorty for a couple of days than commit to another month and half of solid effort on one thing ... ?

Hmm...

Time to enter into a state of denial, methinks. Tra-la-la...


* Which is not to be confused with the undermined, involving as it does picks, shovels and the all-round depredation of confidence.