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Closed out Nano around 30,000 words, which would have been much better if not for work. (Smashed it with about 60,000 words if we count everything I did for work, but let's not, because none of that was novel/fic.)
As for work: I have not set fire to anything. This is a remarkable feat. I have even made cups of soothing tea for the others who suggest the current situation needs to be purified by flame and could I please bring in my archery equipment just for them to have a little look at.
You will not be surprised to learn that I am about to start retraining with an eye to moving into corporate communications. It's for the best: arson is both illegal and immoral.
Very random side note: the last episode of Doctor Who was a cracker; the one before made me want to hunt down the writers and throw Robert McKee's Story at them, as they clearly read its Wikipedia page and absorbed all its worst lessons without any of the interesting things McKee has to say about believability and internal consistency. I wrote something very similar to that script when I was 16. And when I was 16 I had two people very close to me die and was already effectively an orphan and swanned about a lot of the time in my Great-grandmother's dresses from 1890, so any Bronte-esque indulgence you have in mind is probably very close to the reality. And, at 16, I was sensible and tasteful enough to read through the completed piece, shudder, tear it into tiny shreds and use it as kindling.
That should have been Classic Who and instead it was stupid. Boo! Deserved better.
As for work: I have not set fire to anything. This is a remarkable feat. I have even made cups of soothing tea for the others who suggest the current situation needs to be purified by flame and could I please bring in my archery equipment just for them to have a little look at.
You will not be surprised to learn that I am about to start retraining with an eye to moving into corporate communications. It's for the best: arson is both illegal and immoral.
Very random side note: the last episode of Doctor Who was a cracker; the one before made me want to hunt down the writers and throw Robert McKee's Story at them, as they clearly read its Wikipedia page and absorbed all its worst lessons without any of the interesting things McKee has to say about believability and internal consistency. I wrote something very similar to that script when I was 16. And when I was 16 I had two people very close to me die and was already effectively an orphan and swanned about a lot of the time in my Great-grandmother's dresses from 1890, so any Bronte-esque indulgence you have in mind is probably very close to the reality. And, at 16, I was sensible and tasteful enough to read through the completed piece, shudder, tear it into tiny shreds and use it as kindling.
That should have been Classic Who and instead it was stupid. Boo! Deserved better.
