Slankets equal progress

Today. As I sat in my bed, dripping with sweat, muse half way down the lane, deadline looming, curtains shut – I wondered, how do I not yet have a book deal?! Because, to all intents and purposes, above sentence withstanding, I’m positively ripe for it. The evidence, if I may:

–          A deadline, albeit self-imposed, presented me with the worst case of ‘what the chuff do I write’ I have ever experienced in my life.

–          My bed, my sanctuary, my haven – became my place of work as I balanced my laptop on my knees, cradled a LARGE coffee (more evidence) in my sweaty palms and gazed out of the window at the view…

–          The view and more specifically, gazing at it instead of working, being my third clear piece of evidence. Your honour.

Add to this the sudden realisation of the value of my Slanket, (20degrees feels like sub 20 when sat stationary for anything more than 30minutes), and the fact that I am now two thirds of the way through my second draft and the realisation that it’s all a waste of time has hit me full force – so, as I say. Ripe for it.

What makes this all so much worse… or better, depending on how full your cup is – mine is not full, in fact it’s empty, but this is a literal cup and it’s Friday night so we all know what a bad sign that is, don’t worry – I’ll refill shortly, but yes – what makes this better (somebody refilled it for me) is that I now have the clear outline for my next book. Characters forming in the background of my mind whilst I tussle with the outcomes of my first. A story beginning to unfold as I procrastinate over the detail in my first. An un-wielding, uncompromising, un-shiftable desire to finish the first so I can get on with the next. And so, perhaps, my transition is transitioning or even transitioned. Because apparently they’re real words. So here is my plan: I shall complete this first, and I shall send out forthwith, I shall nurture the rejections with the smug knowledge that my cold-hearted doggedness will make this all a reality. One day. Months, years, lifetimes from now but sometime. It’s just that the agents, publishers, readers of the future haven’t quite realised it yet. Mwoohahahahahahahahah *swooshes slanket in pantomime baddy way* *slaps thigh just for fun* *returns to bed to gaze out of the window*

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