(Hangs head in shame)
After a lovely piece last week about how important deadlines are, I missed this one. Okay, so it's a self-imposed deadline, but that doesn't make it any less important, especially to those of you who wait upon my every word. What do you mean there's none of you that do that?
Anyway, I have been writing, using the quiet time at work to rack up 4,000 words in two nights.
I'm on the late shift this week, which means staying until 8pm, waiting for the 'stack' to get some jobs on it. Then I would make some phone calls, try to resolve the problem or get an engineer sent out. After 6pm, though, the number of jobs dries up so I have a lot of free time.
So why am I there? Because my company has a contract to supply a helpdesk until 8pm.
Where am I in my novel? I hear you ask. Still at the beginning, opening the story up, revealing characters, backstory and setting. I've got Ben and Mae on Earth with Igor (naturally) and settled into the brothel.
Ben and Filipe (a temproary name for an Italian policeman until I can be bothered to find a better one) have now turned up at the flats where the dead bodies were found and have just escaped being lynched. Mae is at the brothel and I'm about to start her investigations.
Last night was a hard write, but I still managed 2,000 words and I'm hoping tonight will get a little easier. But it set me wondering whether writer's block is just our minds telling us that something is wrong with what we're writing?
On that note, I bid you adieu and I shall see you on Friday.