Today was officially fiction (so far, and that's my point here.) It started late, because I started late, and even though I got in to my office at 8 (it used to be 7:30 I aimed for, and before that it was 7) I didn't leap into action as I'd intended, but did some email-y things. I'd meant to do the (billable hours) nonfiction bit until Rick left to go measure the roof his mother wants repaired and I'd start fiction. That didn't happen, though I did an interview for an article and cleaned up the transcripts, so that's something.
Rick left at 10:00 or so. By 10:20 I was writing. I wrote for four hours straight, getting up only to make more tea and, once, try to get the head-cold-snuffling cat out from under the bed so I could give him antihystemine and milk. He wasn't having any of it and I couldn't get to him.
So I worked on the under-contract novelette, due officially October 1, and I wrote 4000+ words in 4 hours and stopped at 2:30 to shower and run stupid windy-day errands (the day isn't stupid, it's just any day that includes a trip to Wal-Mart, the bank and the post office is.)
And when I got home, still needing to do 1. nonfiction 2. a different nonfiction project 3. a third nonfiction project 4. seal up article queries in the 9x12 envelopes I went to Wal-Mart for (dinner ingredients were an afterthought) Rick was home. He's been out of work for 19 months now, with odd jobs and seasonal and part time things. So what does my brain do? Fast-backwards 19 months, says "My husband is home! I'm done for the day!" Programming - I has it.
And now I need to work on the article and email varoius peoples and work on at least one of the two nonfiction projects. Tomorrow Rick is heading out at some horrible hour like 5 a.m. and I will be writing again. No point feeling sulky now. 4000+ words is a good day.
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