Which is to put it lightly. I am not so much a bad blogger, as a terrible blogger. If I was a diarist I would line up shelves of beautiful, leather-bound, diaries, each a blank year of un-catalogued life. If I was a penpal, I might as well be stuck in the depths of Africa, responding by airmail to every other letter at intervals of roughly six months. </self castigation>
I'd like to say that all of that unproductive blogging was reallocated to productive writing time. I'd like to, I could, but it'd be a lie. Some of it though. And is my screen right now:
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| I like that this is a screengrab for my blog of me writing my blog. Part of me wishes it updated in realtime... |
(Ignoring the terrifying number of open tabs) Almost every one of those word documents is a partial or near-completed chapter that will be sent over to Lawrence for a first or second pass. Mixed in with it is the holy File itself, a short story, and a psychological test to establish cognitive function (research). However: Mostly it's new writing that Lawrence hasn't ever seen before. Thousands and thousands of lovely words, some of which I'm even proud of.
Because, well yeah. That whole "Finish by New Year" thing didn't happen. My brain turned it into "Finish by February", and now that's gone down the rabbit hole too. So I am now stuck with "Finish damn you, or I remove all gin privileges."
(Withdrawal of gin is what one might call "Extreme measures".)
These documents are alternately 1) Waiting on being edited, 2) Waiting on me typing stuff into them from my notebook, or 3) Waiting on additional scenes and lines that have been hanging out half-formed in my head to finally download onto the page. This will all be done. Soon.
As my ex would tell you, I'm terrible for leaving my computer on for days, even weeks at a time without closing the poor thing down. It does not appreciate this. But I am vowing right now that I will not turn off this PC until all of those word files are saved, closed, attached and emailed.
Or no more gin for me.
