As one door closes, another one opens. And there goes door 24 on my advent calendar. I have little patience for such things, but just enough to carry on regardless, listen to Ska and write what will or won’t fit anywhere else.
This whole dehumanising, debilitating, illness-inducing appeal process I’m going through, up against the social cleansing agenda of the ruling fascist UK government, is exhausting. But as one light goes out, another switches on.
While I still have the willpower to battle their Vogon bureaucracy, I can’t focus on any fiction longer than the flash format. I enjoy the six-word discipline every now and then (‘They had shoes, but none fitted’), and I sometimes venture into the middle ground.
By some odd coincidence of life, I was talking to a friend who’d lost someone recently, and I was reminded of something. Like me, he believes they still walk among us.
In any case, I’m a romantic poet and a horror writer with little time to be both. I guess I’d call this ‘Sleeping with one leg outside covers’…