Writing in a winter wonderland

Well, maybe not that wonderful, but writing nonetheless. After Friday's shameful display of speechifying I took a couple of days off to reflect quietly on the vagaries of life. And sulk. OK, so mostly it was sulking. But now that the fog of regrets is beginning to lift, I went back to read through Book Number The Fourth from the start, looking to see if it was a shite as I thought. And it isn't.

Which is weird... Normally I hate these things while they're in progress. They're always cringe-making. I can only assume that I've lost too many brain cells over the Christmas period this year to notice.

Alternatively the writing pixies have paid a visit and have been tidying things up without me noticing. Usually they're pretty obvious, what with their neon-orange jumpsuits and tiny belled feet, singing Show Tunes and jumping up and down on the keyboard to make words that aren't crap. And are spelled right, and make up, like, you know, meaningful sentences and junk. We've not had a visit from the writing pixies for a while. Not since Grendel ate the last lot, thinking they were particularly camp mice.

Or it might just be the brain cells thing.

So, if you see any loose brain cells, or have any of your own to spare, sling them my way, would you?