Saturday,
November 28, 2009
 |
|
 |
|
Allow me to paraphrase Neil Gaiman...
Fuck me -- I've won Nanowrimo 2009.
Now, of course, this doesn't mean I'm FINISHED, gracious no. It just means that I have 50,000 words in a file. Which is nice and all, don't get me wrong, but there's still about 45,000 more to be added before this book can be declared soup (I'm aiming for 95K as my first draft finishing goal, since I know I'll be adding a fair amount of text during the edits once I finish doing all the necessary research instead of plugging in "XXXXXX -- fill this in later").
Realistically I've reached the part slightly past the halfway point where the poo is about to hit the oscillator, an innocent man has been arrested for the Billings murders, and Poe and Dodgson will have to scramble in order to save a little girl's life. Nonetheless, I have achieved a new personal best of writing *goes to calculator* 5,693 words in a 24-hour period. Whoo -- I'm surprised my brains aren't leaking out my ears.
And now, allow me to do the happy dance and strut, Geekette Style.
Reason #1,836 why I love Lyndon
As you know (Bob), our master bedroom closet was just finished, which left the various construction detritus in the master bathroom to be cleared away and the final finishing touches added to the edges of the doors, shower and tub. Lyndon was making noises last night about doing this today, which was perhaps a little offputting because I'd planned to nail my butt to the chair and crank out wordage like never before, but he did have a point about us being in the house for a full year and how having a fully working bathroom would be a good thing.
Hoping to crank out some words before he was ready to start, I got up this morning, put on the headphones and started typing away. Around 4:30 PM, Lyndon poked his head in my office and asked what tools needed to stay in the bathroom for the final finishing stuff and what should go downstairs. I explained, and turned back to the keyboard to get a couple of last licks in before having to go and work.
When I did, I discovered to my absolute delight that all the detritus in the bathroom had already been either thrown away or stored in the garage, Lyndon had scrubbed down the counters, and was preparing to sweep, vacuum and mop the floor. "I'm not doing the tub, if that's okay," he said. "I'm scheduled for a quest to the Grim Gray God tonight, and I don't have time to clean it out properly."
"That's okay -- I'll do it," I said quickly. "Oh, and have I mentioned recently that I love you?"
"Why?"
"Because you cleaned the bathroom without asking me to do it, or even getting me in to help."
He gave me this puzzled look. "But you're working on the book," he said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I'm not going to stop you from doing that -- it's important. I'm fully capable of getting off my butt and cleaning in here by myself."
Gentle Reader, I give you Lyndon Fletcher, the best damn spouse any writer could ask for.