The big idea was to read the last few pages of 100 Years of Solitude last night, but I was so intrigued by Survivor and then CSI (although I really do wish they’d learn to flick on light switches–yes, I realize that a good flashlight illuminates to focus on detail, but c’mon–and after a dinner of beef stew and sourdough bread, I fell asleep on the couch. When I awoke at midnight, I worked on the cover of otto no. 2 to get it printed and went to bed at four to wake with a shriek and a pounding headache at nine.
But between framing today, I intend to finish reading, although I find as with McCarthy, I am reluctant to let go of Marquez, and again see the book-o-meter progress reported by the bookmark within the last three-sixteenths of an inch of the end. Such visuals are not available in flash fiction, although the slider on the side of the screen can indicate progress in a purely online text reading.
What’s next? Well, I’m allowed to put some effort into my own project now, as well as attempt to go back to my five-at-a-time readings. A lighter novel, one of the lit journals, Didascalicon (!), and Silent Hill should be up for review.
I shall absolutely bury myself in literary effort until I feel I can safely stick my head out and see reality once more.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology