I'm not great. Again. I'm floundering. Again.
I hate this feeling - of being directionless. Lost. Confused.
Don't worry. I'll snap out of it again. I always do.
In the meantime, I'm going to continue to write and hope to be published, and self-publish and all the usual stuff I do.
Honestly, I think I'm felling this way because I'm channelling Julian's emotions who, at the moment, feels exactly this way. I tell you, this book will be the death of me.
Not really, but almost.
It takes me roughly three months to write a first draft of a book (read here: throw everything that happens in a roughly chronological order onto roughly 400 pages (double spaced)). For this book, that is three whole months of confusion, and death, and despair, and torture, and grief...
It takes its toll.
Man, I can't WAIT to finish this book and work on something lighter! Just 15 000 words to go. Five days. Five days, that's it. I can do it. I can get through this. I can. I can. I can.
Dear gawd, let it end!
Writing is actually right on schedule. Yesterday, no one died. That made a nice change. However, Edward certainly gave everyone a piece of his mind. That made me sad. He takes things too hard upon himself, that man. It's a big brother thing, I think.
Right, if I'm to get this damned book finished, I'd best get on it. Have a great day!
That which is only a trouble, or useless burthen to the world.
- Robert Nares' Glossary [of] the Works of English Authors, 1859
A cumberworld, yet in the world am left,
A fruitless plot, with brambles overgrown,
Mislived man of my worlds joy bereft,
Hearbreaking cares, the offspring of my moan.
- Michael Drayton's Shepherd's Garland, 1593
Cumberground, anything utterly worthless and in people's way; something that ought to be destroyed or buried out of sight.
- Charles Mackay's Lost Beauties of the English Language, 1874