… is how you get to make really good friends with the people that really matter in life. Mr Vacuum Cleaner. Little Miss Iron. Mr Kettle. Mrs Pot. Sometimes they breed or you forget what you’re doing until you’re doing the ironing with the teapot and trying to retract the cord on the iron.
Seriously. Is there a better way to discover teas of the world or keeping a (relatively) clean house than
pretending to write a novel crafting away over the minutae of imaginary people’s lives….
I’m eating some Christmas presents as compensation. They don’t make socks as tasty as they used to. They used to stitch the chevron pattern on men’s socks with licorice, for when times were hard. I saw some ‘dairy licorice chews’ in Marks and Spencers yesterday (hand-rolled on the thighs of Dervla Kerwan’s nan, no less) which sounded just about the most disgusting thing imaginable. And speaking as someone who likes to put jam and mustard on vegeburgers (quite possibly because I’m not a vegetarian) I think this is high drama indeed.
My little spreadsheet of word count vs days is beginning to wilt a bit. Perhaps I need to find a different measure of success. Like getting an agent. La la, I can hear the badgers singing. Perhaps I should simply load up my Stephen King editing specs and laser out all the adverbs from my writing. And then start taking out bank statements. And before you know it I will be KING OF THE WORLD!!! Through the removal of adverbs I will cripple humanity. Slowly. DAMN! I must exterminate myself.
Any writers out there care to share how they measure a good day? Is it simply a case of counting the mugs of tea?