The last time I posted here was nigh on a year ago: May 7, 2021. I’d just reviewed Rabbits, a splendid novel by Terry Miles. Things were good.
I had been working on my own fiction. My blog and website were coming along, and I was drafting a qualitative analysis that was long overdue. It’s currently under peer-review, and that’s as far as I want that part of my life to seep in. I had just, on a lark, launched a challenge on Twitter, too—to read and review 26 indie authors across as many genres as I could find, so long as the author themselves recommended it.
Needless to say, that the post received far more responses than I thought it would, and my list of indie books to read/review is more than full. I began with, and finished, Warming Season, by S. R. Algernon.
If you’re a fan of planetary sci-fi that blends power struggles and personal rivalries with life in a far-future colony, you’ll love the book. It’s the first in a series and a slow burn, but it’s well worth it. The characters are as real in my mind as they were the day I finished reading it.
But the bottom fell out of my personal life. I could somewhat see it coming, in hindsight, but the depth and detail of what started mid- to late-Summer last year—and is still in its throes—knocked me off my game. In every aspect of life: personal, emotional, creative, social, professional.