Yesterday, I wrote myself right up to a good point where writing anything more should have exploded into pages if not chapters of goodness. I had copious notes. Inspiration galore. It was going to be, like, so totally fun! And then it was late, so I put it off for a full night’s sleep.
Doesn’t my room look great? At least two tons of dust and old books out the door! Awesome, right?
Well, what about how those tiles in the bathroom gleam after a good scrubbing? (Didn’t mean to scrub. I was just shooting the cr@p out of some poor thirsty ants on a mission for my toilet water, and the only thing around to git ’em with was spray OxyClean.)
(Some people don’t just organize socks; they’re so ambitious, they’ll organize sock monkeys right into couture fashion.)
Today’s tally on the writing front:
- Organized my secondary novel into three 200-page sections. (Yes, it’s that big.) I will edit them down so the three bits are acts, or I’ll edit and build to create a trilogy. (This felt monumental as I did it. Sounds like rubbish now.)
- Added three paragraphs to the end of a chapter for a better transition to the next.
- Wrote one paragraph of notes on the finale.
- Made a really nifty stack of writing textbooks on the shelf beneath my nightstand.
On Saturday afternoons, the knowledge I still have one more day of weekend feels like riches, bounty, wealth! So much more time to get things done! But, when they arrive, Sundays are always so squishy and short.