Typical

You set a month aside to write some big chunks of two new novels and life gets in the way. In among the paltry word count, there have been too many late night (and late afternoon) birthday parties, too many battles with the cat to get her to swallow some antibiotics (at one point she sank a claw so deeply into the back of my hand that there was about 12lbs of feline hanging from me), and various other writing jobs that suddenly require completion (Gutshot edits, for example, p.131: change proselytizing to proselytising… *zzzzzz*), or events and appearances that I was committed to. So I reckon I’ve got maybe a thousand words done on both Project Bayonet and Project Wishbone in the last ten days. Not great. It doesn’t help that I also have a delivery deadline looming at the end of November concerning Open Heart Surgery, the new collection. I had in mind a new short story for that (got to have at least one original, right?), but then another one occurred to me, so I want to get that done too. Pleasingly (to me, at least), their titles will be The Pike and The Fox. At some point I’ve also got to nail down the contents, and provide notes for the stories too.

Today, though, the house is still. The cat is hiding somewhere (sorry, mate, but you’ve got another week’s worth of medication to fight me over); the munchkins are visiting the Tate in Liverpool, and I’ve had those necessary two big cups of Illy. Once I’ve posted this, I’m activating Freedom and knuckling down. Peace out, rainbow trout.

Reading: Things that Never Happen, by M John Harrison and The Weirdstone of Brisingamen, by Alan Garner

Listening to: Cold Summer, by Lull (aka. M J Harris?!)

Watched: Source Code

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