Like walking in the rain

It's rarely a good sign, when I start writing blog posts and then deleting them unposted. This morning's was all full of angst and wind: how I'd only written 800 words and hit 44,444 words in toto and how pathetic was it that I'd decided to stop there and creep home and whimper lots, and and and, so on and so forth, y'all know how that goes.

So I decided not to post it, but I did stop there and creep home and whimper lots about the utter unfairness of everything, and the need to vacuum and do paperwork, so on and so forth, and and and; and because I have obvious neck-and-shoulder issues at the moment it was the obviously right time to go and buy a heavy sack of cat-litter and haul it home across the moor, and when I looked out of the window it was clearly about to rain on top and I just deserved that, y'know?

So off I went, and heavy sack was heavy, and yup, rain was heavy too - but just to complete my justifiable misery I thought I'd force myself to think about this damn bloody awful book as I trudged, and y'know what? Lots of little pieces fell cleanly into place, rat-a-tat. I know where Tom was last night, and why; and I know what Webb is up to, and why I spent a couple of weeks earlier this year reading about John Wilkins and his Universal Language; and why Frank is lurking in the woods; and like that.

So, yup. Damp and still dispirited, and still not got a wordcount worth the mention, but no longer cryptosuicidal. It's a better thing.