I think I've got the hang of writing to a deadline now. I'm hammering out 1,700 words in 1hr 20 minutes. It might not read like Shakespeare or flow like Byron, but it's mine and it heralds the beginning of Book Two Gristles Revenge - which is sweet.
Only 6 days to go with tomorrow being the last day I might not be able to contribute. I'm working until I finish (I've given up guessing when that will be, I've only clocked off twice on time since Sept 9th) Then I'm off to Canterbury for the 7pm Soroptimist meeting there. Usually I get back home about 10.30pm. I'm hopeful I'll be able to get something down with the old man snoring next to me. He is really good about my typing into the wee hours even if he never reads!
Do you know how weird and lonely it is to be a writer, married to someone who doesn't read unless its a Haynes manual or an Ikea flatpack? Add to that my son doesn't read either unless it's on a server telling him to kill the next mutant zombie round the corner. Neither of them have read the dedication I've given to them in my first published novel and they probably never will. Maybe someone will read it to them at my funeral service - perhaps that's why it's called a dead - e -cation?
Getting morbid - aka time for bed