I promise, I'll get to my giveaway winners next week, after school starts and I'm not doing Lamaze breathing just to get through an afternoon with a house full of bored teenagers.
But right now I have two things on my mind. One is that I'm afraid I'm doing exactly what the guy in this article is talking about.
And the other is that I realized this morning that I've become rather spotty. (See scientifically obtained proof below)
Considering that I get less sun than bats, moles, and people who live in disused subway tunnels, I can't in good faith call these 'freckles,' a description I would love to employ because it suggests a certain 'youthiness.'
Nor am I worried that they're cancerous; if they were my mother's hands would have dropped off years ago.
No, I'm just spotty. And for the next week, while I hide in my office and finish my novel, I'm going to use my breaks to ponder on just what this little development means.
Maybe it's what happens to your hands when you write something so breathtakingly awesome, even the Pulitzer committee can't come up with enough hyperbole or zeroes on a check to adequately describe their rapture.
Yes. I'm going with that one.