I've been busier these last couple of weeks than any person who makes no money has any right to be. This is a measly excuse for my silence.
I'm on the home stretch--I think--with this novel's first draft. I have the peculiar 'almost-finished' feeling. I want nothing more than to sit and write and write and finish, but I also feel saddened at the thought of writing and writing and finishing.
Still, this draft has eaten my brain. I haven't been reading, I haven't been catching up with the (few) new TV show episodes that have been on (I missed two episodes of House? 3?), and the less said about the dustbunnies under my bed, the better. Still, I am almost finished a rough (oh, so very, very rough) draft!
The sign over my desk tells me I have eight days.
I wonder what will happen if I write all day today?
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