I have it my head, now you can have it too.
The plot of my book covers a period of time which starts on the 4th October and ends on the 8th November in bloodshed and orgiastic mayhem. So I am thinking, I may lock myself in the attic* with a bottle of Absinthe** and attempt to edit the text concerning each day as each day passes, and then have my book finished for mid-November.
Given that my book is about 120,000 words long that's... well I'll be looking at about 3400 words a day, but this is editing, not writing. Although there are some bits that need rewriting.
Thing is, I keep struggling and getting real despondent. Illness and pressure don't mix too well, but I need to do something dynamic now or else I will start wandering towards the dark place. I am fed up of being a struggling novelist. I want to be a novelist.
The thing is basically written, I just need to get it to a stage where I don't feel like throwing up every time I consider the possibility of someone else reading it. Which is, quite honestly, the current state of affairs.
Only, should I risk it? Should I risk pushing myself into relapse at a time when I seem to be doing better than I have been in ages, when finally my health seems to be moving in the right direction? I have a history of such reckless behaviour and suffering the consequences
Then again, is it any risk? Perhaps I am umming and ahhing about this, entirely reasonable and harmless idea, simply because I am afraid of facing the endgame?
I could get everything else out of the way before the 4th October, clear the decks. And we'll probably head south again around the 8th November, so I will have that break to look forward to.
The idea of entering my 2007 with my book still unfinished is pretty damn depressing. I want to enter 2007 seeking publication.
I just noticed this is my 400th post. Oh dear...
* We don't have an attic, but I can lie on top of the wardrobe.
** I can't drink on my pills but I have this stuff for sore throats.