It's a long weekend in my part of the world, which means I'm tucked up at home eyeballing the novel. My plan is, if I can lull it into a false sense of security by doing inconsequential errands around it, it won't notice when I start working on it, ever so gently, ever so slowly. And I'll be able to pin another few hundred words onto its bedraggled ends before it figures out a way to protest. Writing, guerilla-Frankenstein style.
It's not the cleverest method of writing, in that it tends to lead to a lot of half-completed errands. For example my breakfast this morning was a soft-boiled egg. It was not meant to be soft-boiled: I was actually aiming for hard-boiled. But I got distracted by writing thoughts, and then I couldn't remember how long the dang thing had been sitting there whistling, and anyway I was hungry, so I just fished it out and started peeling it. And then when it started running everywhere, and I had no bread to sop it up and make it delicious, I admit it: I just drank the damn thing.
It was … kinda not awesome.
This is a large part of the reason I do not trust myself to provide food to other, more normal, people.