After three weeks, 49,000 words, a kidnapping, a daring rescue, a broken coccyx, and mistaken identity, the one thing I've dreaded has happened: I don't want to write.
I'm so close to reaching 50,000 words that it's not even funny. If I could make myself just sit down and do it, I would have reached my goal (of course, part of the problem is that I wouldn't be done even then because I have a lot more story than can fit in 1,000 words). But, I'm so blessed tired I can't bring myself to even care.
I caught a cold from my niece last week (she was sick, and she asked me for kisses; it was stupid, I know, but she NEVER asks for kisses!). Since last Friday, I have been dog tired, and I haven't had a chance to catch myself back up to where I'm feeling semi-human. It's really a rather frustrating position to be in because I'm mad at myself for not just finishing, but I'm simutaneously too tired to really get worked up enough to get off my duff and fix it.
There's also, probably, some of the "fear of succeeding" factoring into it, but that's a blog for another night. Tonight, I'm going to bed early, and tomorrow, I am attacking (Adeline) AT DAWN! ..... (or 8:00 when I sit down in front of my computer for the day ... whichever happens later)
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