Otherwise known as hello, the bloody end.
I am fidgety and whiny today. I hate every song on my iPod. All 8,000 of them are trite, overplayed, noise. I hate my desk. I hate my chair. I can't get comfortable. I can't concentrate with music, I can't focus without it. Season 4 of Scrubs just arrived in the post, and I have no desire to watch it.
I am simultaneously gripped by an insane-making urge to avoid the novel, and an equally insane-deathmarch-drive to finish the novel. Oh, yeah, and there's an idea for a brand-spanking-new novel nibbling at my frontal lobe. Um, hello? What about those other scads of novels, patiently waiting their turn for so long? What about this novel, whose turn it definitely is?
Hoo, boy, welcome to the bitter end.
All revisable words have been revised, and now all I have left is the new stuff I skipped, and tidying up all those bits which really should have been tidied up before now.
See ya on the other side.