I had a decent early dinner and worked on DW and managed to reach 37,300 words, so far. I'm still not sure what the story's about because I know some of the stuff I'm working on is tedious and unreadable, but it's a beginning.
The turkey make me sleepy so I took a nap, too. I still managed slam through 2300 words. Late Monday night I'm headed for Hong Kong hoping I don't fuck up, again, but you never know till you do it what's going to happen.
I'm forcing myself to keep writing despite the last couple days. What little confidence I had in myself got shattered thanks to that job in DC. I got down there, got the collection and archives packed in about the amount of time I said I would, got it picked up even though our trucker didn't show up and got it packed into containers to protect the shipment during transit, all on schedule. I was proud...and tired.
But...because I didn't do one last step -- have plastic banding put around these nice solid containers to hold the lids in place -- somehow along the way a 700 pound 48x40x45 inch container got dumped on its side and the top popped off...and the collection got messed up, inside. Some of it wound up caught between the clear shrink wrap on the container and the container, itself. Items may be missing; they won't know till they've gone through everything.
I got sick. Seriously. A blinding headache and depression like I've never felt. It was a lovely collection of books and photos and papers from Eastern Europe under Communism...and it may be ruined. It brought out memories of every stupid thing I've ever done in my life, and there are a lot of them, and jolted me down to the point where I actually was suggesting to Brendan he find someone else to write his story because I would just fuck it up. He ignored me.
I'm better now...but still upset. And shaky. And nothing pleases me. Nothing. I should never write when I feel like this...but if I don't I don't meet the challenge for NaNoWriMo. So I put down bland and boring and figure I'll come back to it later.
Maybe.
The turkey make me sleepy so I took a nap, too. I still managed slam through 2300 words. Late Monday night I'm headed for Hong Kong hoping I don't fuck up, again, but you never know till you do it what's going to happen.
I'm forcing myself to keep writing despite the last couple days. What little confidence I had in myself got shattered thanks to that job in DC. I got down there, got the collection and archives packed in about the amount of time I said I would, got it picked up even though our trucker didn't show up and got it packed into containers to protect the shipment during transit, all on schedule. I was proud...and tired.
But...because I didn't do one last step -- have plastic banding put around these nice solid containers to hold the lids in place -- somehow along the way a 700 pound 48x40x45 inch container got dumped on its side and the top popped off...and the collection got messed up, inside. Some of it wound up caught between the clear shrink wrap on the container and the container, itself. Items may be missing; they won't know till they've gone through everything.
I got sick. Seriously. A blinding headache and depression like I've never felt. It was a lovely collection of books and photos and papers from Eastern Europe under Communism...and it may be ruined. It brought out memories of every stupid thing I've ever done in my life, and there are a lot of them, and jolted me down to the point where I actually was suggesting to Brendan he find someone else to write his story because I would just fuck it up. He ignored me.
I'm better now...but still upset. And shaky. And nothing pleases me. Nothing. I should never write when I feel like this...but if I don't I don't meet the challenge for NaNoWriMo. So I put down bland and boring and figure I'll come back to it later.
Maybe.
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