Well, here we are having taken yet another circumnavigatory Gregorian tour together, and I hope that you’ve put away your party hats and crackers and are back to the grind, having disregarded all the unreasonable expectations you made of yourselves for the coming months. Because I have nothing but sympathy: it’s too cold to get up and run ten miles and do the laundry and tidy the front garden and write your best auntie a letter every morning. I understand. Stay in bed. Read a good book. Listen to a good story.
Here’s one, a good story, from an author you likely don’t know. I didn’t know of him either until Robert very kindly and generously shoved a book into my filthy mitts. I’m a bit of a busy reader, with a half dozen books open and a pile of books to read that the mountain certifiers are always interested in measuring. So, while I’m always interested, in a DROP EVERYTHING sort of way, of hearing about a new author, it has to really get under my nose for me to sit at attention. Fortunately, I think Robert’s been listening perspicaciously, and clearly has an idea how to do that. From his synopsis of the story: Lots of dialogue, odd situations, lots of internal musings and a Flannery O’Connor feel. No fooling.