I’ve just counted the days since I finished the draft of my novel and although it has only been 48 days it feels like 48 years; and then, strangely, hours.
It has been a little strange. The habit of writing every morning seems to have stuck and so when I haven’t I’ve felt a bit angsty. Which spills into every facet of life.
And it is not as though I haven’t done anything – I have been pottering with my drabble, but that really just felt like killing time.
Until a proper project came along…
So I printed out my novel to re-read (too soon?) and I’ll be looking at Kiwiana Charlatan…
…but what I really want to do is to write something fun. Something silly. Something where I don’t have to delve too deeply into my past/emotions.
Not that I’ve reached that level with my drabble. At the moment it is all frustratingly superficial.
The year is slipping away…
