Three days afterwards and my neck and legs no longer ache. There is something to be said for dancing in purple plastic heels designed by an architect. Just what that something is, I don't know yet. My brain is not engaged. I wonder if I am the only divorcée in Veneto who throws somewhat-wild-but-mostly-cool parties, gets herself in a tizz, dances herself dotty, sees in the dawn then finds a mattress. (But the mates! All too young, or too not-right, or too visible. And I am past the age where I need to throw myself about for validation. But hmmm there was a pair of shoulders I could have helped myself to.)
Now that the house is almost scrubbed clean I must hose down my brain.
My Editor is back on track and I have zipped up a denim halter dress and sat down to work. In truth I'd rather be starting off on the new books kindly ordered by-myself-for-myself that came in yesterday ('Having Cried Wolf' by Gretchen Shirm of Affirm Press OZ and 'A Little Javanese' by Andre Mangeot of Salt Publishing UK) and okay I confess I have read the first story of Shirm's collection, but I have just downloaded my own book and seen guiltily how hard my Editor has been working.
DLC has been formatted with a lovely typeface that is not my own, the front pages have been spaced out elegantly, the words look at me eagerly from the page. My own words. It is a slightly silly book, but it is my book. And it is coming to life.
On my horse.