...is now my favourite anagram of my own name, which is rather difficult to rearrange satisfactorily. (A close tie is "cheerily hales impure".)
I am releasing chirpy helium by making an incredibly fey dance mix and playing it at top volume: everything from Felix Da Housecat to Lady Gaga to You Say Party! We Say Die!. The bubbliness of this dance mix is designed to offset a grey cold day, fighter jets screaming over to the airshow, frightened cats under the bed, and the intolerable bleakness of my damned book.
It's Draft 2 Central at my house today, and as much as I love my creation, it's a scary and sad creation, to which I have not been kind. (Maybe it needs a bride.) As often happens to me, what began as an attempt at light fiction has (d)evolved into a book about family damage, loss, violence and suicide. (Mom: you won't want to read this one, ever.)
Simultaneous to all this horror, of course, is a voluptuous knuckle-cracking excitement: I made this, and I'm making it better, and eventually, I shall make you read it.