I must be mad. Soon I'll be meeting myself coming back, and the reason for this is that I have re-joined the critique group I used to be in, so that means keeping up with two sets of critiques now. (HistoricalFictionAuthors and HisficCritique, if anyone is seeking a good critique group) Also, I've got three different stories on the go - one Tudor, one Viking and one Victorian. Add to this that the tennis clay-court season is getting very close - Monte Carlo starts on 15th April, and I could be the proud owner of a Dalmatian puppy if the stars are going my way. I was late on registering interest with the breeder and someone else is going to visit the puppy on Sunday. If they decide to buy him I shall be so disappointed. I won't tempt fate by saying more on this at the moment. Let's see what Sunday brings.
There's another thing - I bought a copy of Writing Magazine about a month ago, saw how many competitions there are for short stories and immediately thought I ought to enter. It seems that winning comps makes a writer more eligible somehow in the eyes of an agent, though I don't know why. Some people have a talent for short stories, and others have a talent for writing 90k+ novels. I fail to see why a talent for one should automatically mean a talent for the other. It's like saying that because you're good at running a hundred metres, you'll be good at running a marathon.
And of course, there's the garden. There it is out there, everything looking thin and weedy after all the cold weather and lack of sunlight. I've been out on my hands and knees whenever there's the slightest hint of sun and the temperature climbs above 4 or 5 degreees, but there's still much more to do. Any day now, the weather is going to go warm and the garden will spring into overdrive and I'll be overwhelmed by the weeds. Come and rescue me if you see me disappearing under a carpet of green!