Tactic: set the alarm clock for five minutes later. More sleep!
The world's answering gambit: garbage trucks. Ten minutes earlier. Ugh.
World: 1, Deb: 0.
Bit of a slow effort, writing last night, because I got distracted by playing with Scrivener. I suppose I could argue that I didn't get entirely distracted and skip writing altogether, and it would be a true argument, but a weakish one nonetheless. Bad author. No biscuit. No wonder the world sent me garbage trucks this morning by way of punishment.
Actually, it's occurred to me that I haven't spoken much about my writing on this blog of late. Or, in actual fact, quite some time. I suspect this is because I'm in the alpha draft of the faerie novel, and I'm one of those writers who isn't comfortable talking about a story until I've got something pinned to the page. My alpha drafts are usually shockingly incomplete, the equivalent of snagging a butterfly by the wingtip. It's an imperfect process, to say the least, because at best a few scales are going to shake loose and the snagged butterfly is going to look a little tatty. Sometimes the damn butterfly would rather rip its wing off than be caught, and I'm left with nothing but a ragged handful of dreck.
I would far rather be one of those efficient, organised types who nets the butterfly and pins it through the heart in one go, but of course I'd rather have wings of my own and buckets of gold to boot, for that matter.