I want a book. I have wanted it for years. I have stalked it on Amazon, but in spite of Amazon's insistence that it would appear for sale, it hasn't. The book is called Risque Beauty: Beauty Secrets of History's Most Notorious Courtesans by Daniela Turudich. I'm not picky; I'll take an ARC or a second-hand copy that someone has spilled coffee on. I just crave this book and no one seems to have it ANYWHERE. Bah.
On a VERY good note, however, the first 51 pages of the revision are DONE, polished and shiny and tight. I am a happy, happy girl. I actually read them aloud, something I seldom do--a serious oversight on my part. It is the very best way to follow the rhythm of the language, and not just the dialogue. The narrative passages ought to have a rhythm as well, subtler than poetry, but just as potent. If your tongue stumbles at word, chances are the reader's eye will as well, and it's time to look for something more suitable. In any event, there are days when writing feels like the most magnificent gift. Yesterday was one of them.