Liveblogging the novel (resumed)

Page 499, on this computer.

Weirdly, in an hour or so, that'll go down. When I get to the Lit & Phil and transfer this latest update onto the Laptop of Heavenly Perfection, it'll be about twenty pages short of that.

I really don't understand this. It may be a different machine, but I'm using the same iteration of the same software on both; and I have both versions set up identically. Same typeface in the same size, same page-margins, etc etc. And yet, and yet...

Oh world, why do you confuse me?

(I will, needless to say, be taking my final page-count from this computer.)

Liveblogging the novel, encore

Oops. I just passed another milestone wordwise, and I have finished that bottle of wine, and not this novel. Um. Not wholly certain I shall make it, now: not today. Damn. That la_marquise_de_ is out there somewhere in the wilds of Dartmoor, doubtless writing up a storm between castles. My cake may be under threat.

What I'll do, I think, I'll nip off downstairs and stuff the marrow with the mutton curry, slip same into the oven and set it a-stewin'; then I'll pour myself a gin and come back up here, see how much more I can manage before that's ready. I'm kinda tired, to be honest. Didn't sleep last night, for thinking about bread; and the damn' stuff has been rising soooo slowly today (not a metaphor: I have sourdough in the airing-cupboard) I may have to knock it back and leave it over another night. Which would be tiresome.

Draft!

Cake. I want cake. And champagne...

Liveblogging the novel, finale

That's, um, 3.5K today. After 2.5K yesterday. I'm tired. And it's a harum-scarum ending to the book, but I nearly pretend it is an ending.

And now I'm going to eat marrow stuffed with mutton curry, with fabulous rice on the side; and I shall read something entirely different from anything I've ever written, for there are still such things available despite all appearances to the contrary, and I might watch some TV if I can be bothered, and like that.

And I'm putting the champagne in the fridge for tomorrow. I don't care how crap I feel (and I do: my chest is building up to a real beaut of an infection, I suspect), there shall be bubbles in my offing. Very possibly bubbles for breakfast. There ought to be cake, but I have no cake, and la_marquise_de_ is in Dartmoor, not baking me cake. I shall content myself with fizz, and coughings.