Senseless Sunday sarcasm : Book 6
I’ll not be going to scrabble today. My sister-in-law isn’t feeling up to it.
Instead of worrying about her, I’m editing. Again.
Recently, the only books I’ve been reading are my own.
I’m presently editing book 6 of the First Level of Hell. If everyone wrote books the way I do, I’d read more often. Not that they’re any better, just that they’re (more) readable — for me.
It’s nice not to have a page full of explanations without end. My eyes glaze over. That’s why I used to read other people’s books to put me to sleep.
I’ve had some wild and crazy experiences in my life. After so many years between the time I knew nothing and when I had a vague idea of the dangers, I’m surprised to be alive. Some of those experiences are deeply imbedded in what I write.
Every time I read my books, I’m surprised by them. That should come as no surprise considering that I don’t remember what I read. The surprise came when the epiphany hit me that I can’t remember what I write, either.
Some days, dyslexia sucks. Other days I consider what it would have been like to have Alzheimer’s instead.
To me, that’s a no-brainer.