…he’s unable to blog today. No, cat hasn’t got my tongue, but publisher

has. I am chained to my bench & pulling on an oar while a large mean editor

whacks a drum behind me. There’s a Radio Derb coming out of the shop any

time now, and my month-end diary will appear as usual.

I am immensely flattered by the reader who is willing to pay $500 to meet

me. I shall do my utmost to justify his expectations. However, and without

wishing to dissuade anyone from coming to the Atlanta bash – which will, on

past form, be royal fun — I cannot forbear appending below a piece of

boilerplate I keep on my disk as an expectation-lowerer. OUCH! Go easy

with that lash, will you? Look, I’m writing, I’m writing….

“A transition from an author’s book to his conversation is too often like an

entrance into a large city, after a distant prospect. Remotely, we see

nothing but spires of temples and turrets of palaces, and imagine it the

residence of splendour, grandeur, and magnificence; but when we have passed

the gates, we find it perplexed with narrow passages, disgraced with

despicable cottages, embarrassed with obstructions, and clouded with smoke.”

—Samuel Johnson: Rambler #14 (May 5, 1750)