God it's hot.
I know, I shouldn't complain - better hot than cold, right? But still, it's really hot.
Too hot to blog. Too hot to write. Too hot to move my pinky finger and scratch that sun allergy I have unflatteringly (new word, yo) developed all over my chest.
At least I'm in the south of France. Down here is a good place for my writing, usually. I don't know if it's the sunshine, the shimmering blue of the pool, the absence of beckoning shoe stores - but it usually does the trick. Although for the next two weeks the house will be filled with family members, many of whom are under the age of twelve. Screaming children : not so conducive to the quiet, contemplative art that is literature.
So let's see, any more excuses I can come up with? We've covered the heat, the tweens, but there's also the stop-and-start job search, the headache I can feel coming on, the misalignment of Mars and Jupiter, and...
Alright Res, that's enough. Let's stop pretending that there's any reason for the delay other than being scared witless of strangers and friends reading my baby and hating it. I'm not sure I have the requisite self-confidence to handle rejection right now.