No, in case you're wondering, I'm quite healthy actually. I haven't been suffering from any mental illness, I've just been reading a book. This book, by Kirstyn McDermott, who you may know if you know people in the Melbourne SF community. Basically, I've been in a completely ordinary state of utter-obsessive-depressive-manic-compulsive-schizoid-paranoid-delusive-insomniac-normality, all held together by this cheering little tome containing such themes as suicide, Satanism, witchcraft, and possession, with one or two suitably lurid and blood-drenched scenes to provide a little light and colour along the way.
Reading is good, kids! It's so life affirming!
Anyway, you should all go out and grab a copy of Kirstyn's book too; it's a gripping read and one of the most intelligent fictional explorations of love and grief that I've encountered for a long time. Me, I'm moving on to another book, another cheering little tome that begins with one of the main characters being 'skewered to the floor', through the heart, with a long-knife, and ends on a point of relative ease and stability, in those carefree few months before the start of the first world war.
They never told me it would be like this when they started me on The Happy Man and His Dump Truck, did they...?
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