Although it isn't vindaloo, my spouse did overheat the banana curry, so I'm considering this my Lister breakfast. Not a big fan of this curry, since the sweet seems to work against the seasoning rather than balancing it; however, I do like curry and this was in the fridge this morning. There were also a few slices of bacon. From this mismatched culinary craziness, I've crafted a breakfast that has left my tongue suffering from afterburn. It would be nice if I could transfer this into a story--taking disparate elements and genres and leave the reader with a similar lingering awareness of the world created.
After last night, though, it seems that writing is the last thing that I should be performing while under expectations. What do I expect? Right now, I'm running on inertia from the momentum of a now defunct writer's group. My metaphorical pen is lazily circling a pair of novels that are ceasing to give off heat and rapidly cooling. I expect that the pen become a dead satellite that sometimes catches the light of a distant project and winks down at the cold surface of the binary but cold novels.
So, yes, right now I'm feeling like I'm stuck in a rocket ship to nowhere with the memories of former shipmates for companionship. Curry for breakfast was entirely appropriate. ;)