Not in Melbourne

So I’m not in Melbourne anymore and that makes me kinda sad. For the last four days I’ve been aimlessly wandering the city, catching up with friends I don’t get to see too often, eating good food and exercising my low-key superpower of being the only person in the world who goes to Melbourne and drinks bad coffee. I’ve returned to Brisbane fatter and happier than I left.

Now I’m warming up for the pre-work writing shift and a day that’s looking…well, kind of crazy, to be honest. There’s going to be a lot packed into the next three days of day-jobbery, from opening the next iteration of GenreCon through to shepherding a complete redesign of the website I’m managing.

More importantly, I shaved this morning. I don’t know what it is without me and Melbourne and not-shaving, but it always seems to happen and it never drives me crazy until I’m halfway home and sporting the kind of bum-fluff three day growth that represents my darnedest attempt to grow a beard.

It was good to shave.

And Brisbane, well, Brisbane has welcomed me home with a pretty fucking spectacular morning. Just the right mixture of cool air and sunlight and…well, Brisbane stuff.

I am not terribly eloquent this morning. I flew home last night and suffered from my usual air travel karma, which means there were delays and malfunctions and some arriving home far later than I expected to arrive home, and thus I am operating on less sleep than I’d wish.

In other news, I got asked if I’d be willing to write a post about rejection ratios for the Science of Fiction website a week or so back, and being the kind of guy who likes to muse on such things, I went ahead and wrote one (mostly in the form of a long email response to Andrew’s question; my natural state when answering all writing questions is basically set to rant).

Now I’m going to plug the earphones in and listen to a little Jane Austen Argument and get some words done.