In which our almost-bearded protagonist wonders if he hasn't made an mistake...

Today doesn't really mark any sort of anniversary, or a significant date: it's just a Tuesday, five weeks since I went back to INoGITCH. And in those five weeks, do you want to know how many new words I've written? How much progress I've made on Book Number The Fourth? Bugger, and indeed, all. Nada. Not so much as a syllable has plonked itself from my fingertips onto the old electronic page.

Worse still, the three days a week I was going to be working (thus leaving four days for writing) I've had to jiggle about to accommodate the demands of work. And as if that wasn't bad enough, I had to work late tonight, so all the stuff I was going to do remains undone.

This is not good enough.

The problem I have is that we're wheeching towards the end of the year faster than... than... than a very fast thing*. We're five and a half weeks away from the end of the year, and far from having the bones of a book and it's opening innards, I've got an empty whiteboard and a dose of the terrible wind (excuse me).

I did sit at my desk this evening and think: if this doesn't work, I'm going to have to give four weeks' notice. That means even if I walk into the office tomorrow, hurl down my flimsy A4 pad and generic Bic biro, stamp my little feet, and cry that I'm not doing this no more, it'll already be five days to Christmas before I'm actually done. Unless they gave me garden leave, but it's far too cold to be sodding about out there at this time of year with a pair of secateurs and a trowel.

The really weird thing is that I've fallen right back into the whole 'project' / 'IT' way of thinking. The way I used to think before I became a gentleman of leisure. Which for some strange reason involves many made-up arguments, where I fight imaginary battles with people who haven't said anything wrong in real life. I used to do this a lot back when I worked at an ISP -- I'd fantasize about shouting at people, then spend a happy hour or so planning how I could walk into the building one lunchtime with a gun and kill every last one of them without anyone having time to raise the alarm. It passed the time.

Not surprisingly, I left not long after and went to somewhere a lot more fun. The new place was a complete shambles of a company, but I managed not to kill anyone there either.

But I'm wondering how long my tenure at INoGITCH is going to last this time. In private I mock the preciousness of the whole 'protect the work' thing that some people talk about, but I'm beginning to think that one's contractual obligations to HarperCollins might consider the opportunities for alternative, additional employment to be contraindicated. Or a daft fucking idea in other words.

Right now I'm in two minds, which is a pretty impressive position for someone who barely has half of one at the best of times. Plus my nose is bleeding and my socks hurt. And music these days is mostly shite.

Whine, whine, whine...

* Did I mention that my... thingie with words that mean things... you know, the word thingie -- it's not as good as it used to be.