I have poured myself two big brown cups of motivation, but it’s like something’s rattling loose in my brain.
Got two walks in yesterday. It was gloriously sunny.
Check ben ça. I was researching Michel’s swearing, which I have kept to a dull roar because speech in dialect is RACIST. (Deep elitist sigh.) I understand that my extremely clunky tribute to the French accent of my formative years is not going to look good, but it’s all part of the extremely not hidden commentary on colonialism which forms the sticky underside of the novels. The surface being all about surfaces, of course. The middle is a topologically improbable tangle of matter and intelligence and bad jokes and sentimentality.