Thank you all for the kind words. I’ll reply later, maybe today.

I’m feeling a sort of ennui, or possibly an enuii. I don’t recall which one, and I can’t seem to muster the energy and focus it would take to actually find out. Easier, I feel, to permit the entropy of the thing carry us along and hope for the best.

Without actually going to the trouble of hoping, mind you.

I’ve been toying with various thoughts on why this might be, and I’ve hit upon one I sort of like. Maybe I’m sad because, for 29 days, I was talking about whatever suited me for hours at a time. I like to talk. I enjoyed telling the story I told. I enjoyed playing with the situations and the people.

And now *shuddering indrawn breath* they are gone.

Certainly, there is editing to do, and another book to write (and, I suspect, another and another and another), but this book is gone. I won’t ever wonder what is going to happen next in this book. I know what is inside of every goat in the story (sorry, you’ll have to read it. A lot of goats get blown up in this book.); they hold no more caprine surprises for me.

Caprine — how did I miss using that word in this book? Huh.

I went to lunch today, Neo in hand, and strolled slowly to the car. There was no urgency today; if I had five less minutes to write, it wasn’t a big deal. I drove to the coffee shop, and past it. I didn’t really want anything to drink, and I didn’t get to play with Wendal (protagonist) today. I aimed for the library, but passed it by, too. I tried for a deep, pathos-filled sigh, but couldn’t really find one.

Finally, at a loss for direction, I came back to the office, where I sat and mused. Well, sat and moped. After a time I hit upon my theory, as noted above.

It is not in me to note a need, decide on it’s fulfillment requirements, note that they are in my grasp, and not put it to work. So. If all I needed was to hear my voice, I’m good. If I am just mourning a story that won’t be new for me anymore, well, I’ll work that one tonight or tomorrow by getting into Feel For Death again. I like Gordon, I like the story, I’ll be happy there.

If those don’t work, I’ll consider heavy drinking at lunch.

I think I will take a few days off. Then I will write Feel For Death. Then I can think about editing.

I feel numb.

50,155 words.

Good night.

Tell me a secret. Tell me something no one knows. Tell me something you’ve always wanted to tell me, even if you have to do it anonymously.

Comments are screened…DUH!

I have 7,500 words left to go. As of last night, I determined that I had, including today, four days to finish.

Which would be a day late. I have 2 days and 9 hours to finish. Got it.

Today Boss came in and announced that no extra duties, social calls, or, in fact, lunch breaks would be had on Thursday, as it is a Bid Day. Generally, I am a frazzled mess at the end of Bid Day.

Which means that I have, essentially, 40 hours to get this done. I can probably manage a thousand words or so of mop-up Thursday night.

I figure I write as much as I can tonight, then break, then do it again. Tomorrow, I take a long lunch. My target is finishing tomorrow night. That gives me 24 hours to have an unforseen emergency.

Like the gastro-intestinal incident that just happened.

*sets teeth and leans forward*

As the poet hath said: chugga chugga chugga…