Home for a week and a half now and at last I'm feeling, sorta kinda, touch wood, that maybe, just maybe, the daily routines and errands are back under some semblance of control. Although I did catch myself reading my stars this morning, which is a sure sign that I'm pining, and hoping the world will miraculously start accommodating me.
The wordcount is not back under control, however. Part of the problem is finding the butt-in-chair time, which has been slippery and tricksome of late, but should become easier now that I've knocked over most of the backlog of errands.
More of the problem is the novel I'm working on, which I love and adore and think is all kinds of interesting1, is not coming together in my head, and buggered if I can work out why. What little writing time I've had has been dedicated to the writerbunny workout, namely: bang head on desk, hope something good/decent/hideous-but-usable falls out.
- As you can guess from such a glowing description, I am at the start of this novel. The glow will wear off as the weariness builds alongside the wordcount. It's only natural. [↩]