Whether the how-to-write books are warning you about how agonising but necessary these days it is to be a performing author, or whether they're (more rarely) warning you of the risks of becoming a performaholic, what they don't say is how much time, beyond the edges of the event, each one takes. I had the most delicious time at the Daphne du Maurier festival, down in Fowey in Cornwall: a lovely audience, great questions, a wonderful walk, but the domestic fallout is considerable, and the writerly fallout is not negligible either, not least because there are one or two things going on which I can't blog about yet.
So, meanwhile, here's what had me doing the Happy Author Dance round the kitchen, despite the kind of weariness only seven hours of even well-behaved trains (blame Dr Beeching and his predecessors) can make you feel. It was sent by a kind friend because I missed it. Note no. 24...
