SLOWER THAN A MONKEY...

I’ve decided to blame Lynn. She was doing this ‘way of the cheetah’ series of posts about how not to loll in the word count doldrums, but seems to have abandoned the idea. Yes, it’s all Lynn’s fault. Not mine. No, never mine...

Today, if I’m a good boy, I might just manage to scrape TSA over the 50,000 word mark. Pa-fucking-thetic. Some folks will be doing that much in a week. Stinkers. But not me. Not this time anyway. Last time: yes, this time: no.

And what am I doing about it? How am I addressing my painful dribble of words*? No idea. I did have a long chat with the cat today. Didn’t help with the word count, but she did suggest I start burning things for fun. Which was nice. I’m beginning to think she’s leading a double life – part time hairy beanbag and part time evil muse. You know, the one that sits on the opposite shoulder from the angel and says things like, “Come on: who’d ever find out?”

Next thing you know you’re stark-naked and up to your armpits in mooshed-up Jehovah’s Witnesses, all wearing beanies and inane smiles made of plasticene. That’s when you realise you need professional help.

* Hmm, sounds like a trip to the doctor is on the cards when it’s put like that...