I’m chugging along on my effort to reduce the size of my ass, down, as of this morning, by some 3Â pounds. Not the progress I wanted, but progress. If you want to get full details, check out my weight-loss blog at New Year, New Ass.
Motion s has been a bit slow on the book front, as well, but that’s about to change (as soon as I hit post here, in fact). The problem was a huge plot hole that had me stumped, but I decided that the way to fill it was with my body, so I’m leaping in with a Fast Draft, a la Candace Havens. If necessary, I will pull someone in with me.
I’ve just done the math. I would need to write 3,571 words daily to manage a fast draft in two weeks (with the 31,000 I’ve got already). I could, in theory, use Dr. Wicked to compose, which accelerates me to about 1,000 to 1,200 words an hour. That brings me down to 2.95 hours a day. While I’m working 9 hours, commuting for two, and, in theory, sleeping for 8.
“This,” I told Shannon, “is only possible in theory. It is madness, and foolish, and should not be undertaken by any sane person. I want you to know that I am protecting your husband, and will not follow this madwoman into her pychosis. I love us both too much for that.”
“I think you should do it.”
Her theory is that I’ve been bitchy and bored and fussy about making tiny crawling steps when I want to bound like a gazelle with a keyboard over the literary savannah. It’s all fine and good, she notes, to carefully ease into a space where I’ve balance in work and life and dream, but perhaps it’s time to just screw all that balance noise. As Tony Stark and Shannon have both said, “sometimes you have to run before you can walk.”
I’m clearly insane. This will all end in tears.
Balance be damned. Likely, me, too. But I’ll go.
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