Had a terrible week. Pretty bad all over. I hate everyone, even myself, and this Dairy Milk chocolate bar just isn’t doing the cheer-up trick, so I know I’m in deep.
It’s all in my head, though, and I’m feeling vaguely bi-polar – filled with excitement at the thought of Word on the Street tomorrow, racing about for final details for my Bloody Words Mystery Conference table and “the pitch” I’ll be giving for the book I’m writing with the irrepressible Sex Lady Karen K. I’ve got no reason to be angry or hostile or anything except happily typing away here and gazing out into the mood-enhancing fog.
Even my horoscope is telling me that all of my mistakes are my fault and I should just take ownership of them and charge on, focused on the prize.
But I can’t help myself up – all it takes from most anyone today is a sideways glance and I’ll snap…Just in a frumious Bandersnatch mood and so I should stay out of firing range, right?
But no. I keep trying to TALK to people, which is not a good idea.
On the good side, my last attempted conversation lit up an entire line of annoyances and now I am typing madly.
So maybe it will all turn to right.
In Chocolat, by Joanne Harris, she writes marvellously about the west wind, and how it makes her character restless, uneasy. Here in Dartmouth, it’s swampy, hot, gusty. I want nothing more than to walk the beach alone and throw rocks at the helpless ocean. I’ll promise that for myself tomorrow, after my toil.