Got a good break this week when a friend posted a raving review on a site that is actually well-traveled; it's his; he's the son of the owner of Black's Gaslight Village and does his best to keep its memory alive. It was not the mention of the Village in the book that got him; it was a true incident involving Duck's Breath Mystery Theatre. But in any case I got some sales out of the deal that is huge for me; my sales record is pretty dismal.

I have to say, the novel does better than all the other books combined, and keeps doing better. It's like everyone knows what a novel is, and most people are in the groove of reading them. They are about the right length. I had always thought short stories were more appropriate for the modern lifestyle and people who just have ten or fifteen-minute chunks of time, but short stories seem to have their own limited audience which I haven't found, whereas my novel just went out there and found its own audience. Life tells me to make another novel.

And I've tried that, but I keep getting stalled. Times like now, I just can't pick it up. It's afternoon, got the puppy on my lap, nobody's hocking me, and still, I'm here instead of there. So goes it.

It's a kind of writer's block, because I have three writing projects, count 'em, three, and can't seem to pick up any of them.