It’s heading towards bedtime on a Tuesday evening and I just need to blog the stupidity of this out of my system, so feel free to ignore this as you please. I come from a family that tends to handle stress poorly. I could see this growing up in my father and in my aunt, and have seen a little of it in my siblings. At one point in my life I thought I had reached a point where I handled stress very well, and was even quite offended when a friend said I could be a bit melodramatic. However, over the past ten years, since becoming a husband, a parent, taking on Locus reviews editing, anthology editing, and the day job, I’ve come to realise I actually handle stress quite poorly. This has not been an overly pleasant discovery. It’s something that has come to a head of late, with reasonable but persistent stresses at the day job, and sporadic outbursts of stressors in my other areas of activity. It’s certainly meant that every day for the past few weeks I’ve had some incredible burst of stress, had to work through it, then try to sleep and so on. At the end of it I find myself tired and ready for a break. It’s probably all to the good that I’m heading off to Victoria for ten days. The loved ones are staying home, keeping the house safe and making birthday plans, while I simply hope to relax as much as possible and come back something of a rejuvenated person.