So I spent the weekend in London, bravely Christmas shopping. Some of you may scoff at the idea of doing your shopping in November; some of you may be wondering why the hell I left it so late. Considering I was squashed as flat as a pancake by the crowds at Oxford Circus, I think I'd agree with the second group. You have to be rather assertive (Londoner-speak for rude) - I got trapped behind one girl who stood there squeaking, Harrods bags raised plaintively in the air, waiting for the hordes coming in the other direction to part and let her through. "'Scuse me!" shouted one local, overtaking us both and moving through the crowd in a way that was strangely reminiscent of American football player William "The Fridge" Perry.
I've had to put down novel number two over the last couple of weeks and focus again on Twisted Wing, taking care of the dreaded rewrites for the final draft. A lot of the first section's ended up in the writing profession's equivalent of the cutting room floor (I've just pictured a limbo land where edited-out words float around - sounds like a Stephen King story), and hopefully what it's been replaced with is much tighter and will do a better job of grabbing the reader's attention. Decapitations and disembowellments still intact, however.
