STATE OF THE CHILL:
words since 9:00 AM Saturday:
554 1008 1761, and the end of Chapter 18. One chapter to go. I am averaging the raging pace of 2/3rds of a page an hour. Yeah, somebody come tell me I'm a fast writer now.
sleep since 9:00 AM Saturday: 0
hours in deathmarch so far: 9.5
pages written: 9
pots coffee: 1 (with some vanilla ground up in it)
large mugs salabat:
pots tea: 1 (white chai)
It Came From The Juicer: Beet greens, garlic, and radishes. Apple lemonade (1 Granny Smith, 1 Macintosh, 2 Braeburns from the bruised fruit bin; one peeled lemon). Which was awesomely good.
drugs: 800 mg. naproxen, 1 OTC Zantac
dancing: in the light!
handfuls of nutritional supplements: 1 (fish oil, evening primrose, calcium, b complex, glucosamine chondroitin)
food: corned beef hash and eggs; layer cake;
BPAL: Jacob's Ladder, of course.
mug: kitty in a file drawer
state of the catbox: questionable
laundry situation: less desperate, as I have hand-washed some undies
Sigh. Still no helpful hypomanic focus. You know, I'm stuck with the fucked up brain chemistry, you would think it could at least show up and punch the damned clock when it would be adaptive.
This book will not catch fire. You know, the entire novel has been The Dreaded Middle Of The Book. Every inch of it. I feel like I'm fighting the seige of Leningrad. But finally, here, in the last thirty pages, I am figuring out stuff I wish I had known on like, page 0. Which will come in handy in the second draft, because now the first draft is full of bracket notes.
In other news, I can tell that I'm grinding my way to the end of the novel, because all of those damned short stories that have been stuck like stuck things are showing up and flashing their ankles. But I did just figure out useful things to do with both "Snow Dragons" and "The Horrid Glory Of Her Wings."
Grind, grind, grind.
i heard it in my sleep, a voice more dead than old
STATE OF THE CHILL: