I’ve decided that this year I will give myself a first draft of my novel for Christmas, but am I even nearly there yet? No. I’m too damn tired to finish writing it. I have managed to get the coughing, spluttering children off to school for the first time in what seems like weeks.
My plan for the day is to stay home, finish some copywriting (cause somebody will pay me for that), finish my homework for the writing course I signed up for, and at some stage hopefully flop onto the bed if I feel like it. Oh, and I’ll have to squeeze in some shopping as well, because every time I go to do it one of the kids starts fading and I have to rush them home and we, therefore, have no food.
Right now though I’m going to finish building a dinosaur for my son (whoever thought giving a seven year old a paper art dinosaur was a good idea needs a flogging). I stayed up till midnight trying to get it done (as I’m so used to not sleeping, I now can’t sleep), but gave up at the tail. It did cross my mind that I could have been writing, but with my hand stuck up a paper T-Rex’s butt it wasn’t all that convenient.
However, now is the moment. It’s time to write. The smell of bleach is wafting through the house (yes Elle, I took your advice and got a cleaner) and I’m now ready to write.
Ah dammit – the cleaner. Now I have them and us guilt. I can’t write… I have real work to do.
Sash
