Many moons ago when I was unpublished and writing space opera and medical thrillers [ still in bottom drawer] I had the notion that my ideal life would be writing like stink during the cold dark winter months like a starving student in a garret – and relax like a spoilt cat stretched out on the warm stone patio during the hot summer months.
Somethings have changed since then – that idea has not.
The garden is looking better, the flowers are just coming out and the veg in the greenhouse has staken a spurt.
Which is why it is particularly frustrating to me that I have spent most of the hot weekend editing my latest WIP instead of being outside – and no, the supermarket does not count, especially in a car which was in the maximum heat for 3 days.
But why are you editing now Nina, you ask?
Why are you not ready in advance of your end of month screaming deadline?
You gave yourself plenty of time.
Please bend down a little so I can hit you with my ripped up deleted chapters.
It seems that my life plan did not include a strange compulsion to work harder than ever to make this book the best it can be. Irrespective of what is happening outside my office/cave/garret.
Whimper. If I am not back soon, please think of me fondly.