After taking yesterday off to, among other things, stand outside of St Paul’s Cathedral lecturing one of my dearest friends about the nature of faith, stomp around Barbican and ramble on about morally dark grey characters, and listen to anecdotes from the front line of trying to teach literature to teenagers in Essex, I wasn’t entirely enthused about knuckling down again. This is why days off are a bad idea.
However, possibly because I’ve been planning this particular chapter since before the whole plot came together and have been looking forwards to it since the start of the book, all 5000 words of it just popped out, more or less, in a big happy lump of dramatic fiction. Not bad work considering two of my wisdom teeth were trying to detonate my cheek and also my eyeball and the whole business of leaving the house made me feel like my skin was made of rancid butter.
This last bout of productivity brings me to within two chapters of the end of the book. I’m pretty pleased with this and while I have my doubts about the quality I am sincerely hoping that I will manage to avoid the “end of draft ennui” that sets in every year, where I expect to get a climactic sense of achievement and forget that “a sense of achievement” is a completely foreign concept to me.
However, if I manage to complete this draft – and barring major upheavals I believe I shall – then I will have written two full novels in this calendar year, and edited two. I’m no Barbara Cartland, but that seems quite respectable. Next year I shall try for three!