riters are supposed to sit up all night in French cafés. And sleep until noon. And then, after pushing the prostitute out of their garret, they write totally magnificent prose. Some writers, anyway. Well, probbaly none. Right now I’m tired. Got the kittens fixed yesterday so between hunger, soreness, coming off their cat drugs and complete confusion, they were both up and down all night. And I didn’t get to bed until 1am anyway. No French cafés. Working on StoreyMinus, comforting whiny cats, and talking a lot on the phone. So there went the evening. Now I’m here at work […]