Forty-six weeks left, until my manuscript dives from my loving hands into the vast unknown.
That's not so bad. That's a lot of neat little boxes on a calendar, right? Plenty of space in there for brilliance, for good old fashioned lack of brilliance, for rewriting, revising, re-envisioning. I think I'm basically right on track.
Even though all the contents of the kitchen cabinets are strewn on countertops and every other available surface. Even though the exterminators are arriving, yet again, even as I type. Even though the toilet decided to stop flushing properly. (Yes, I just mentioned toilets. It happens.)
I didn't forget my last post: I'm not complaining. Not at all. This is actually a battle cry.
From one red-capped, tea-swilling, trying-to-be-plucky writer girl to the Forces of Chaos.
Guess what, Forces of Chaos. I'm not taking it. This is the week that I finish the massive outline, and that the next draft begins. Really. It's on. No matter who is ringing the doorbell. No matter what happens.
So, let the plaster fall, let the floorboards crack and split, let the tree limbs rain down...
I'm getting this draft started by Saturday!!
Seriously. You don't know who you're messing with.
(Which is the sound of a gauntlet smacking a pesticide-stained floor, in case you couldn't catch the nuances.)