The revision of Linger continues, as these things do. The writing is done, and the changes are in the computer for eight of twenty-one chapters. I have conceived an intense hatred for the physical act of typing, and a miserable dislike of Courier 12-pt. On the upside, Sam I Am has eaten all of the Chewie of Eternal Stench, and so my office no longer smells like wet liver. The scent of wet liver is a serious barrier to creativity.