Hush, here comes a whizz-bang...

Okay. I have been away for twenty hours, give or take. I have drunk a lot of wine. And I do mean a lot. Also whisky, in unreasonable quantities. I have talked some, and listened more; I have cooked a little; I have thought, just a touch, in between the other stuff.

I have a book to finish, which is already 'way too long and 'way behind. I think it is time to declare a death-march.

I've never actually done this before, and I am a frail reed; I may break, I may run. But we will at least sign up, take the king's shilling and put our marchin'-boots on. I have good and interesting foods in the house; I have books and TV; I have a bed. And cats. That seems to cover the essentials, for those inevitable non-writing hours.

So. Don't phone me (I know, as if you would; you never do anyway, so why would you start now?), don't drop in on the off-chance, don't ask me out. Amuse me on the internets by all means, but no more.

Basically, I have a week. I know I can write fifty pages in a week; can I write a hundred? Do I need a hundred? I don't know. We may learn.

If this works, I will be posting occasional word-counts here and there. Also menus, news of cats, etc. Not much else.

Right. Done that. It can be lunch-time now; an army marches on its stomach. Devilled chicken-livers and mushrooms on toast. And then we start. Yes.

Here I stand

Okay, that's part five finished. While the last thirty pages are printing, let's have some metrics.

The book is here:

156,003 / 180,000 (86.7%)

or, in pages the cat can sit on:

489 / 560 (87.3%)

(Yup. The cat is now sitting on them.)

All the forecast numbers are flexible; I really have no idea how far this book still has to go. Clearly, I never did have any idea. The contract says 125,000 words; I anticipated 150,000; we've just passed that, and there's a whole lot of plot to come. I might just be able to ride a little of that over to vol two, but not much.

Part six, then. Last part: effectively one stonkin' great chapter full of Stuff. Like sprinting the last lap of a marathon. Madness, and shockin' careless judgement...

Ego-boo: mention of a mention

I found a bijou little reviewette of 'Bridge of Dreams', which I cannot forebear to bring to your attention. Money shot:

"Gorgeous fantasy that somehow manages lushness and bleakness at once".

I like that.