Grace may think 500 words a day won't kill you, but I'm not making it. I can write 300-350. That's a page and a half for me. Takes 45 minutes to an hour.
I'm not entirely certain anything I'm writing at the moment will stay in the book. I'm just putting something down to get my brain moving in a forward direction.
I realized last night I've told the non-furry people in my life to leave me alone to write, but I haven't yet communicated the request to the furry people. I'm thinking maybe a walk for the dog and some laser playtime for the cats before I start anything. That might give me an hour of clear-of-obstruction screen time.
Of course, that means I actually have to walk the dog and play with the cats, something out of the normal for me. I might accidentally wear myself out and defeat my own purpose.
But a page and a half is something. I've got to be the turtle with the artichoke.
TT: Actually, it's the turtle with the cherry tomato, but I don't like tomatoes. Artichokes are delicious but hard to eat and occasionally painful and fibrous and annoying. Kind of like writing a novel. Getting to the end is great, but the spiky parts in the middle require careful management.
Mostly, I seem to be out of the serious writing habit. I've let other, easier parts of life sprawl around and take up space, and I need to squish and hack and stomp them out of the way until I have some clear brain-space to exercise my creative muscles and get this novel out of the oven and onto the cooling rack.
I don't think I can mix any more metaphors, so I'll get on with my day and let you get on with yours.