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.