Speaking of e-mail: I should be caught up with my e-mail through Christmas Day, so if you sent me something before that and were hoping for an answer, please re-send it, as it has somehow gotten lost along the way.
It's grey and icy here, and I'm glad markgritter and I came home from Michigan yesterday instead of today; it does not look the least bit nice out. I am extremely worn, and while some of my favorite people are having New Year's festivities, I fear I will have to miss out. I'm receiving all the signs from my body that say, "rest now voluntarily or rest soon because you've caught some virus; your call." We're trying the voluntary approach.
I was looking at books for the year, and it was easy to pick the best mystery I read this year, the best juvenile, and the best "mainstream" fiction; the best nonfiction and the best speculative fiction were more or less impossible to pick in single volume form. I think that means good things for the latter two categories, but I wouldn't have spoken ill of the first three either. I don't know. I am not feeling like summarizing my year for you; I guess the first paragraph is really spot-on for year summaries: I have been a lot more cocooned this year. One of you wrote that it seemed like I was doing pretty well, and she happened to write it when the truth was a lot more complicated than that, as it usually is. I get tired of explaining, is the thing. When you do great big year-end summaries, it seems like there is explaining to be done. When you talk about having sockeye with orange chili sauce, there is not explaining, there is only fish.
I like fish.