My internal drivers tell me I haven't done a thing today.
Technically, this isn't true. I shopped and set up the house for weekend guests. To make sure the dh has some choice in his dinner menu while I'm away at my next convention, I panbroiled lamb chops. This is in addition to the spaghetti sauce I made from scratch for his birthday last Sunday. Then I read three manga. (Research--honest! Next month I hope to be on deadline for an illustrated YA vampire romance. I hope. I hope. I most fervently hope.)
Noodling in the kitchen, I came up with an idea for a short short story, ran to the computer and typed it out. Four hundred twenty words later, I shipped it out to my best beta reader for short fiction. Finally, I rounded out the evening with an illustrated blog in support of one of my soon-to-be guests' latest release. (It's only fair. She's making tomorrow's lunch. Yes, I will work for food.)
But none of that matters, because it wasn't work on the book that's been riding me like some demon jockey. And I'm not even writing the book yet, as I normally understand the meaning of the term. I'm just throwing down plot and dialogue in thousand word chunks. No description. No refinement. Not only that, I'm writing it faster than any fiction I've ever written, except those creepy little short shorts that appear fully formed in my thoughts from time to time.
I'm going to a con tomorrow with friends I love, and I almost can't stand it, because it means three days away from the book. Worse yet, when the con's over, I'll have less than five days to finish it before heading off to yet another convention.
The book has entirely possessed me. But please, don't call the exorcist. I'm having entirely too much fun.
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