Feeling like a dodo . . .

Do I have the time?

I’m scribbling everywhere I go and typing into the night, slapping  promise patches over plotholes:  Plant this in chapter three.  Did you use this already?  Check airline regs.  Go back and break her mirror.

I’ve written more in the last two weeks than I have in the previous two months.

It seems to be working—the words are there, thrumming in the background when I drive or work or blog.*

But I have four days to get to the end.**   And that’s not ninety-six hours of solid writing time—it’s  more like twenty-two.

This whole experiment could be another dreaded learning experience:  self-imposed deadlines are not to be shared.

But even if I have to come back Saturday and say, hey, not quite, I’ll be a lot closer to finished than I was.



But I don’t want to.

Butt in chair.  Rear in gear.



*Blogging doesn’t seem to slow me down—it takes time, but I have to come up for air once in a while.  It’s a nice breather and sometimes working on something completely different knocks something loose in my WIP.  ‘Sides, I’d miss you guys.

**Though I wrote most of the end during the baseball game Sunday.  Got a fantastic sunburn, too —  I sunscreened everyone else, and then Sunny fell down and I forgot that I work inside all day and will sizzle in the sun, brunette or no.  Janie needed my hat, so the top of my head is tender and my nose resembles a strawberry.  Thank heavens for aloe in a pump bottle.


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