My brain went on strike about forty-five minutes after I finished the novel draft last week, and it’s still picketing against any notion of returning to work. I do keep trying to explain, quite reasonably, that I don’t need the entire brain back – just the bit that does the re-writing, and maybe the bit that writes the short stories would like to pitch in again? Heck, at this point I’d settle for the bit that writes haiku, and I’m so not a haiku kind of guy.

And Now We Are Forty-Eight
It’s the eighteenth of March here in Australia, which means I’ve just turned another year older. We’re still fixing things up after