If 7151 words in a day is not a personal best, it’s in the top 10. That takes me from 0715-1130, 1300-1500 when the phone made such weird noises I had to answer it, 1545-1630 when I noticed the sunset (yes, it was a gorgeous clear day wot went by) was shaping up to be photographable. 1815-2145 when my brain gave notice that it did not have the oomph left for an emotional epilogue. Not to mention the bone-deep ache in both wrists, and in the base of my right thumb, which I hope are a consequences of starting weight training and not RSI – I promised them not to disregard their complaints too often. I switched off the sound on the phone, the answering machine – and it still persisted in wanting attention, so I unplugged it after I spoke to my parents – and the Internet – next door, at the wall where the cable comes in. If I could have gone down to the street to unplug it, I would have done so. It is such a time-suck, so easy to drift over when my concentration cycles down, and drop half an hour guddling pointlessly around. So, unplug the Internet.

But that 7151 words means that as of now the m(es)s stands at 135 541 words with the story so nearly told that by the end of tomorrow (if I don’t fall in the lake, trip over the dog or drive off the road tomorrow on the way to and from my I-am-reforming-and-getting-more-exercise-if-it-kills-me run in the morning) I will have have a sort-of-complete-but-holey-as-an-old-washcloth, drafty-as-an-old-pair-of-knickers REAL LIVE FIRST DRAFT to print out by the end of the weekend. It’s lacking essential descriptions, vital plot connections, dialogue refinement, consistency in terminology, and for that matter consistency in minor character names and descriptions, and too many people sound the same. I will no doubt have contradicted myself a dozen times, and I can only pray that none of those contradictions torpedo my climax and denouement, because I likes it the way it is. Writing for me is like building a bridge that decides to turn left in midstream and connect to another continent entirely. But it has life, by gum, it has life: a mob of bloodyminded characters out to get their own way – some of whom I will I discover I have forgotten entirely by the wayside and will need to account for, a roll call of the movie cast, or the prisoners; a problematic and not too implausible ecology that I will get to refine further; lots of decor; a certain amount of geography and weather, one of those climaxes that makes me wonder what would happen if they gave me the MMPI. Murder, mayhem, and the road to hell reached by the best intentions. It’s a mess, but it’s a glorious mess, and it’s all mine!