The novel has turned into a bit of a slog, partly because winter and cats are conspiring to keep me tired, partly because I just couldn’t get under the skin of my story. Last time I wrote it I loved it. What had gone wrong?
Words written: 3333
TV shows watched: 3, ish?
Books read: None, but I’m about to settle down with A Novel In A Year.
I did not make it to the library, because my darling Tybalt allowed me a whole 5 hours of sleep, and then went completely bonkers for the morning when I was home alone, so I stayed to keep an eye on him and make sure he didn’t do too much damage and then I was too tired (read lazy) to do the hour’s walk for the sake of a couple of hours in the library.
Instead I settled down at the kitchen table, crammed on my enormous pink headphones and got out the first chapter of the ghostly romance, which really needs a better name. I was hoping for more words, but I’ll settle for liking the ones I have.