I’m off on holiday this weekend, so I actually wrote this in the past. Well, in your past; as I write this currently, it’s the present. I think. Maybe it’s the future, I don’t know, I’m not good at this time travel stuff.
When I say ‘holiday’, what I actually mean is a trip to a cottage about an hour’s drive from where I live. We’re still in weird times, I’m not heading off on a foreign holiday, or going to where people are, I’m hunkering down close to home, just to have a relaxing few days in nature with the other half and the baby.
My laptop will be coming with me in the vain hope that I find a few bits of time to carry on writing Other London 2 whilst I’m away. The deadline is now not so much looming over the horizon as it is sprinting towards me, screaming that I don’t have enough time and that I’m a darn fool for ever thinking I could complete another novel.
But it’s getting there. It’ll be done. I hope. No, it will be finished (maybe). Oh, definitely, the deadline has already moved twice, once more and Amazon will drag me off to some sort of bad author compound, never to be seen again.
Okay, I need to finish my packing and maybe squeeze in a little bit more writing. By ‘a little bit more writing’, I of course mean watching Wimbledon while I pray to Mighty Thor that the baby stays asleep for longer than thirty minutes this time.
Talk when I get back!