You may have noticed me being a little scarce around the comments in the previous note on the Eschatonverse. And that it's been a little while since I blogged. There is a reason: my damned eyeballs.
One of the problems with being a novelist is that the career structure starts late; very few folks have anything substantial to say about the human condition before they hit thirty, and you're still a young writer until you pass 45. (Looking at my desk calendar, that gives me another two weeks or so ...)
About a year ago I noticed some changes to my vision. I've got, ahem, interesting eye issues to start with (myopia, some astigmatism, and different retinal problems in each eye) and for the past 12 months I've been fighting off galloping presbyopia. For the past couple of months it's been getting noticeably worse (I've been swapping reading glasses and distance glasses like crazy, and still having eyestrain-induced headaches) and since last week I've had a set of varifocals on order.
Anyway, this is really eating into my screen (and reading) time at present — the new lenses take a couple of weeks to make and ship — so "Books I will not write: #5" is going to have to wait for a couple of days.
I'm seriously considering a gigantic new monitor as well, but there's limited room on my desk (an odd Scandinavian fold-up writing desk from the 1970s, not a boring office table affair), and I am Not Interested in replacing it.
Meanwhile, if TruFocal lenses weren't so plug-ugly I'd be queuing up for a pair. And you know what? If they start selling them with an XGA or higher resolution built-in head-up display I might go for them anyway.