Yesterday's numbers

 

53037 / 80000 words. 66.3% done!

1500 words a day seems to be about where I am at the moment. It continues to be not enough, by almost exactly half. I should probably write to my agent, to let him know I'm going to miss the deadline. Le sigh. Haven't done that for a long time. I used to be all Douglas about deadlines, but not these days. Cavalier style went out with the NBA; we're all Puritans now.

Dream on

1500 words, did I say? I ought to know better, I really ought.

Barely 500, and I'm giving up and going home. I kind of want to crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head, though I don't suppose I shall.

*skulks off, composing messages to agent in his head*

Review!

I was at the vanguard, once. It says so right here. Mostly what I say myself is that I have a dreadful sense of timing: five years too early, or else five years too late with everything. But hey. This is a nice review of Desdaemona.

Money shot: All of this combines into a novel that is fast-paced and action-packed, peppered with a neat rebooting of ancient mythology brought up to modern times.

In other news, I am turning an innocent carrot sambhar searingly hot with fresh chillies, to make a contrast to the mutton curry, which is searingly hot with dried chillies. I need the comfort of internal fires, apparently.

Draw a stickman!

If anybody on the planet hasn't done it yet, please to draw a stickman, and see what happens...

A question!

So, pedants dear: please to picture a man in the boots of a workman. Are they his workman's boots, on account of clearly belonging to only one man, viz him; or are they his workmen's boots, as being appropriate to the whole class of workmen?