Up and down

I'm feeling very old just now. I think it's partly the result of having slogged my creative and emotional guts out this week getting the novel to within spitting distance of 30,000 words. It is exhausting, this writing business. I don't notice it so much at the time, just think of it as typing and if I'm aware of anything it's the pain in my left wrist that comes from the strange way I've taught myself to type. Then, at the end of another 2,000 word marathon, another three hour session, I feel like someone's slung a wet sandbag at the back of my skull. I spend the evenings sitting in a daze, staring at the TV and summoning the strength to get up the stairs to bed.

This is entirely my choice. I choose to spend my time like this. No one else is putting pressure on me. I don't have any imposed deadlines, other than those I self-impose. So I'm not whining, not really, just clearing my head.

Off to Paris for seven days on Monday!