That time of year again.

I've been dreading this event: the first bout of my biannual allergy-induced insomnia. The trees are mating left and right, and the mould spore is skyrocketing. It's not as bad as most years, but I'm putting that down to my lovely, lovely chemo. (No, seriously. Apart from a few side effects, I don't know how I ever lived without it.) I'd take a Lunesta, but they tend to just make me hallucinate.

On the writing front, I'm about 50 pages into a new novel. It's only being written for fun, so I don't know if it'll ever see print. Time and Colleen will probably determine that, though. I'm really enjoying it--I actually remember, for the first time in months, why I started writing in the first place. (It's been a rough few months, in case you couldn't tell. That's what happens when an undeserving oaf breathes down your neck, demanding to know why you haven't sold any books yet.) I'm at a point where I need to just go back and re-read from the start to figure out what happens next. I should probably do some actual plotting, too. Like I said, I'm writing it for fun. I love plotting by the seat of my pants.

I'm going to stick Neil Gaiman on for a while and see if it helps me sleep. Let's hear it for The Graveyard Book!