This is stupid. I write better when I am in the grasp of writer's ennui and grimy self-indulgence.

I wrote a good entry today, but like many of my better pieces of prose, they were written in my head. This of course is suspect, after all, the picture in your head is always better than the reality which you have to put to the brush. In the same way, prose written in the head tend to be more beautiful, more fragile, more illuminated.

***

Oh well. I just indulged myself and bought a novel by Philippa Gregory, The Other Boelyn Girl. I remembered I loved The Wise Woman which I read in my early teens when I devoured lots of historical fiction. However after that phase passed, I seldom touched a book of that genre, except to peruse Earthly Joys, which I disliked intensely. I suppose I do like the Tudor period much better, which was the real reason why I liked The Wise Woman. It is set around the time of Anne Boelyn and the novel's protagonist mirrors Anne's rise and fall.

The current novel I am holding was bought despite my practical brain going, "It's not a good investment!", but I read the bit about Anne admonishing Mary to be silent while their parents plan and was hooked. I am now looking to own a copy of The Wise Woman, but wouldn't you know it? There wasn't a single copy in the eleven stores I visited. Oh well, there are still a few I can reach through good old public transport.

***

Alright, I have to run. Hope this entry is coherent. The Beau wants supper you see, and he is the centre of my universe, for now. Such ominious words.