A long stretch of silence resonates from the ethereal space between my brain and keyboard. I wish I could say I've been distracted by hot beaches and cool ocean breezes. Or a fine sample of hard, dark green, and handsome.
Alas, Mr. Dalton has become an outlier in the statistics of his own productivity. As his gorgeous assistant, I'm swept along in the madness, twined into the manic insanity of inspiration.
The problem though, is the requisite perspiration, which DWD loves, loves to delegate. As such, my acute and cynical observation and heckling skills are left to atrophy. Instead, I wade through semi-final drafts of Sci-fi looking for errors grammatical, typographical, and scatological. My eyes dry out from all the outline analysis, and are starting to resemble my skin.
Who knows when it will end? After you all suffer through my absence, I hope you enjoy the results. By the time you see them I'll be so sick of spaceships I'll want to hibernate for three years and bury myself an extra meter deep. Just be sure to feed the bears instead of DWD's ego. It's much safer.
