Woke up in such a funk today. Went to bed last night in one, too. Life’s still a bit fractured as S’s yet to go back to school, so it’s possible that a lack of routine is all that’s dragging me down. I’m not sure. Whatever it is, I’m having one of those days where any word uttered within a six foot radius of me curls my fingers into fists. I’m trying to distract myself with my usual vices (food and real-life crime documentaries, should you wonder), and yet I still feel like crawling under my duvet and hiding until the week is over with.
Tomorrow I start writing my new book. I’ve never set out to write like this before, but I have an idea percolating in the back of my mind and three months to complete a first draft. I know. You’re laughing. I am too. But I’ve lost six months’ momentum now, so that’s all I have left. I’ll never again get this opportunity to prove I can be a writer, so a tight-as-a-tornique daily writing schedule is the only way I’m going to do it.
Or not do it.
Whichever way you look at it, it’ll be one or the other, right?