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So, is there any good fic out there? That isn't incestuous or underage-y or otherwise scary? Preferably gen since I feel rather un-pairing-y about the series, except for the one I like that would be spoilery to mention but is probably not popular anyway, being het.
It is cold and rainy. I seem to be catching a cold. I am dismayed about this, as I have a full day of interviews tomorrow and am flying the day after, and the day after that, and the last time I flew with a cold I felt like I was being skewered through the ears every time the altitude changed.
I did a phone interview with a big paper in Scotland today, and had to restrain myself from saying, "You have such an adorable accent! I am in love with your voice!" Then I had photos taken for the same article. The photographer, Dale Cherry (great name) quickly figured out that I felt more comfortable doing anything but sitting upright in a chair, and photographed me on top of a table and in various scrunched-in-a-chair positions, including one when he was packing his equipment and I absently grabbed hold of my knees and started rocking on my butt, and he immediately unpacked everything and took some shots of that.
Also I did a radio interview with some guy who hadn't read my book. It was OK-- I'd rather they confess that than not confess and try to fake it.
Before that I poked through some bookshops on Charing Cross Road and bought the last two of a trilogy by Annie Dalton (better that than the first two), The Goshawk by T. H. White, Green Grass of Wyoming by Mary O'Hara, Urn Burial by Rober Westall, and The Stone Quartet by Alan Garner.
Tomorrow is all day at the BBC. I have bought cold medicine and two rolls of lozenges.
I did a phone interview with a big paper in Scotland today, and had to restrain myself from saying, "You have such an adorable accent! I am in love with your voice!" Then I had photos taken for the same article. The photographer, Dale Cherry (great name) quickly figured out that I felt more comfortable doing anything but sitting upright in a chair, and photographed me on top of a table and in various scrunched-in-a-chair positions, including one when he was packing his equipment and I absently grabbed hold of my knees and started rocking on my butt, and he immediately unpacked everything and took some shots of that.
Also I did a radio interview with some guy who hadn't read my book. It was OK-- I'd rather they confess that than not confess and try to fake it.
Before that I poked through some bookshops on Charing Cross Road and bought the last two of a trilogy by Annie Dalton (better that than the first two), The Goshawk by T. H. White, Green Grass of Wyoming by Mary O'Hara, Urn Burial by Rober Westall, and The Stone Quartet by Alan Garner.
Tomorrow is all day at the BBC. I have bought cold medicine and two rolls of lozenges.
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