I’ve reached the tipping point—not the exciting kind as described by Malcom Gladwell where everything starts to come more easily but rather the kind where I tip over in my chair from exhaustion. Some procrastination crept in today, so I got a late start. Luckily, the world contains coffee, and my veins also contain a lot of coffee, 1700 words later. I’m still on track, though. Day by day, the finish line inches closer. The plot of my novel doesn’t seem too outlandish today. I set about doing some high-level planning before I dove in, which may have slowed me down initially but it was so necessary. Highlights of today included not being sure whether my cat had peed in the middle of the room or just knocked over her water bowl, and, let’s see, also doing laddered writing sprints. So instead of even chunks of time, I’m working 5-10-15-20 minutes and back down again. It’s a bit like going to the gym, only the book (and the ass) expand as you go.
Uncanny Vale
Home to the Literary Creations
of Erin Wilcox
Her hands were delicate, long like a piano player’s, calloused from hours spent knitting and tending the animals, warm and coarse. When they touched me I knew I had a home.