Iain's death was like a hammer blow.

I know, I know, I can't possibly justify this. Only a few days ago I was in tears when I recounted how I felt when he died. Out, like a slammed door far away.

I did not know him so it wasn't that. Maybe I identified with him? Maybe a part of me that was inspired by his...

And there I have to stop. I'm as reluctant to engage with the pseudo-psycho smoke and mirrors as he was.

Was. See what I did there?

Twenty thirteen was a slime-shit, dice-awful year. I am glad to see the back of it. The files on my next book have been dusted off and I am going to have another go at indifferent mortality.

Watch me sore.