and, so, goodnight

I haven't quite figured out where to fit in time to write here in my day. I'd like it to be a somewhat regular time, but, well, ideas don't come to me at a set time every day. (And, sometimes, they don't come to me at all, and then you're serenaded with complete nonsense, much like what is going on right now.)

I'm needing to get to sleep in just a few moments here, but a quick note first.

I don't like Sherlock Holmes, or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for that matter, any more now than I did when I first read my Holmes collection about ten years ago. I don't care that Doyle had garnered canon-status, I'm not going to take it (no, I'm not going to take it! I'm not going to take it anymore!). Okay, so, actually for the next day, at least, I'm going to dwell on Holmes, but after that, I'll stick with my Millhone (when is "U" coming out?), Fletcher, Qwilleran and Swensen. I really don't care how frivolous any of my choices are/seem, I enjoy them. And, Grafton's books and Murder, She Wrote carry a kind of nostalgia, I guess, for me. I see no reason to stray from that. Especially for Mr Holmes, who irks me ever so much.

Actually, real quick, before I turn in, I suppose it'd only be fair to explain why I don't like Holmes. He seems to only slightly tolerate women (those silly creatures). And his arrogance? It makes me crazy. I've recently met someone who likes him, in part, for just that trait, but I can't stand his let-me-gaze-into-the-distance-as-I-slowly-explain-just-how-simply-simple-you-are attitude. Okay, so he's good and he's confident in that, and perhaps I should be happy for him, but I won't be. He's fictional, so I don't feel the need to be nice to him.

And, so, goodnight.