I got 3756 words on Scardown today, which I think means I wrote enough in the past two days (more than a week's worth of wordcount) that I get tomorrow as a glorious, fulfilling goof off day. I got the Big Fight Scene written, including a gloriously cinematic moment that my protag is gloating over, and now it's back to the political intrigue. It's going to take some work with the fine sandpaper and a half-round rasp to get all the edges even on this one, but hey. Draft.
Draftitty draft draft draft. 211 glorious manuscript pages of draft.
If it's oh-dark-thirty in the morning in Toronto, it's even earlier for a hardworking single neurologist with an online virtual reality game addiction. Hell, Simon might still be camped out in his bar in the Avatar gamespace. If he isn't, he's curled up in bed, just hitting the first sweet, refreshing flickers of REM sleep. I really shouldn't call him. I still haven't forgiven him for giving Valens the information that Valens needed to find me.
I have Simon's home number.
He owes me.
No visual, but a sleepy voice mumbles amid a rustle of sheets. "Jenny? It's three a.m."
"My give-a-shitter is broken, Simon. You called?"
"Yeah." There's a grunt and more rustling. I imagine him finding his contact and earclip in the dark and fitting them in. He coughs, and suddenly swims into focus. I laugh: he's turned a bedside lamp on and must have straightened his pajama top.
"Who the hell sleeps in pajamas, Simon?" Damn, it's hard to stay mad at him. He looks about ten years old.