So, the endless summer of disruption continues. I’ve written precisely nothing this week. Today I decided fuck it, I’m going to achieve something. So I bought two flat chickens. And now I’m going to barbecue them.
If this comes off it will be the most significant thing I have achieved in about 6 weeks.
Right, okay, that’s it. I’m a pencil punk writer now. Woke up to discover the broadband was out this morning. Some big network kerfuffle at Optus. Big enough for them to have changed their recorded message…
“Yeah yeah we know we’re on it, sheesh!”
Decided that if was going to slow down, again, I’d slow all the way down. So I hauled out my e-ink tab and scratchy stylus and got to writing the next 3.3 chapter out long hand.
We’ll see what happens next I guess.
It was a revelation being at home with Jane through Covid. The first couple of weeks she worked from the second desk in my office, where I’m typing this right now. I quickly gained an appreciation for her ferocious work ethic, but also for how she had to deploy it in the face of constant demands on her focus from other people in her work life.
Eventually we moved her into a spare room and after that of course, she returned to her office in the world of the real things.
It’s a dead possum. Somewhere in the ceiling. A very large dead possum, it smells like. Who ate a lot of chilli and beans.
There’s a guy coming with a chainsaw and a bucket tomorrow.
This deadline’s going really well I reckon.
The house was gloriously quiet and still today, allowing me to get back to World War 3.3. As I expected, I wasn’t able to spin up from nothing to seven hours of two-fisted manuscript punching. But I managed four hours of concentrated work, and I’m gonna take that as a win.
It’s been three long, very long weeks, but the scaffolding finally came down around the house this morning. It went up so the roofers could get up top and repair some damage I didn’t even know was up there.
Although I’m not quite sure how much I can offer Mr Zhang’s steel and ironmongery…
