Memo to Self:

[desperance]

When issuing challenges that demand the writing of 60K words or thereabouts - the better half of a novel - in a month, it is not a good idea to celebrate with eight or nine pints of beer.

*nods*

*flinches*

*needs coffee*

In other news: I seem to have woken up with a cold. Bloody FantasyCon. All those bloody people needing kissing, bloody bloody...

*coughs*

*sniffles*

In other news: I hate my book. It's all talk, it's going nowhere, I've lost the plot (in a very literal sense) and will something please happen? Please? Look: I have a motorbike! I have a boat! I have a girl with superhuman powers! I have a boy with six fingers on the run from mighty evil beings! I have a blindingly obvious trap he's about to walk into! How can it be this dull?

*sighs*

*goes shopping*

Comments

[davidbarnett.livejournal.com]

I rose to the challenge by having a couple of glasses of wine and then cleaning the carpet at close to midnight (the two were not related).

I find I do my best thinking when the Bissell is humming. But have not, alas, written as much as a comma since your gauntlet stung my face yesterday.

[desperance.livejournal.com]

Oh, lor'. We are not best prepared for this, I fear, nor responding well. Still, it's in the finest tradition of the British amateur sportsman: wager heavily against mighty deeds tomorrow, then go out and drink to the enterprise all night.

I'm not sure if it's a happy or an unhappy consideration in the circs, but this is of course not a zero-sum game: it is possible for us both to lose...