Oh, August

...And the rain's back. I don't know where my August went, but it ain't here. *glowers suspiciously at California*

And my internal weather is much the same: foggy and wet and eruptive. This morning I have sneezed and coughed and gone ouchie at the pain behind my ribs. Just on the right side, as ever. Last night I couldn't sleep, because I couldn't breeve. This must be why musicians have a semi-brieve: because they don't get half a chance to catch their breff.

Still. Snivelling and ouchie, off we go. Medicines to collect, books to write. Rain to splodge through. Don't you wish your August was hot like mine? (I had to put the heavier duvet on the bed last night. Mac thoroughly approved, and came to snuggle all night long. He was almost sweet, so he was.)

Word meter!

M'friend'n'guru durham_rambler of Cornwell Internet is the man who designed my current word meter. In response to enquires, pleas and begging, he's now made it available for general use. Just click that link, and there it is. For reference, if you haven't been following, it looks like this as it grows:

 

41738 / 50000 words. 83.5% done!

I love it, and not just because it was designed for me (since you ask, that is - or was, a few years back - the skyline of Shanghai; and I was writing Hidden Cities, so it all made a lovely kind of sense).

Go you, and play likewise. There is no greater encouragement, trust me, to the production of a regular wordcount.

Cop-out, thy name is moi

I came home from the Lit & Phil needing another 750 words to round the day out. I'd already written 1750; the rest, y'know. Should be easy, right? I had half the afternoon and all the evening.

There's a reason I go to the Lit & Phil to work. I've been home for hours, the afternoon is gone and there's a limit to the evening, and what have I done? Cooked and fadgeted and listened to the cricket, amused the cats, read the internets and written 350 words.

I need another 400. So I'm cheating: I'm writing about food. When in doubt - as Chandler never said - give the characters a meal.

Somewhere deep inside, I fear I may be a frustrated restaurant critic. I don't get to write about real food, so I wax lyrical about the meals I make up. (The first book I wrote in this house, fifteen years ago, a reviewer said "Brenchley is obsessed with food." Back then - until then - I had no idea that it showed.)

*writes about soup, and bread*

Onward and upward

Need another 150 words. Am just bloody well going to do this.

Have an extra gin, and no excuse.

Words, words, words...

Or actually, mostly numbers:

 

20110 / 80000 words. 25.1% done!

I really wanted to get over that quarter-point, and there it is.

In other news, my document contains 88881 characters, and I kind of wish I had added another seven, but hey.

20110 less 17783 = 2327, which, yeah. It's not going to set the world alight, but, y'know. If I could write that much every day, I'd be happy vaguely content. For a while.