Well for starters, I’m a natural worrier. I’m not talking picking at a small tiny hangnail sort of worrier. I’m talking full blown would-eat-my-own-hand-off-and-not-even-notice sort of level of worrying. Seriously. I have no idea how many years I’ve knocked off my age expectancy with the amount I worry, but I suspect it’s a lot. In fact, I’m starting to worry about that now, too. Wonderful.
Anyhow, why am I worried?
For starters . . . .
- I’m worried that I’m about to have a neighborly meltdown that will impact the rest of my years living in my house.
- I’m about to have kittens . . . literally, the kittens that is, not me actually giving birth to them.
- Tomorrow is the day before Thanksgiving and I’ve got a million and one things to do to prepare.
- I’ve pulled all the holiday crap out of the attic and it is still sitting in the hallway staring me straight in the eye with its evil glee.
- I’m not talking to my dad. What else is new?
- My disease is flaring. Awesome.
- I’m absolutely knackered yet
- Oh yeah, I can’t sleep.
I didn’t quite make it to 10. I thought it would be cliche anyways.
Ah, but number 9 . . .
I’m still on Chapter 12 a month later. That one really hurts big time.
I don’t even have a good excuse except to say that I’m not really feeling it right now. With the holiday madness starting and with my self-inflicted kitten fostering/adoption, I’ve come up with everything possible to do except sit down with the book. And it sucks. And I’m not sure what that says about me. Perhaps that I have the attention span of a gnat.
I was sorely deluding myself if I thought I would finish the manuscript by the end of the year. I’d effectively have to write 12 chapters in 6 weeks. Ooof. Yonkers. That’s pretty harsh.
Yet, I will get there in the end. Hell, I might even sneak back into the bedroom now for the power cable to my rubbish old laptop so that I can actually write now. In fact, that’s not such a bad idea . . .