I've written before about the inevitability of losing fitness when on deadline. It seems unavoidable. Extra hours at the desk. Fewer hours at gym. More snack food.
I'm on a self imposed deadline at the moment. One I'll miss, for sure. I set myself the goal of finishing a first draft of the sequel to The Cruel Stars by next Monday, because on Monday night Jane and I catch a flight to Rome.
I'm okay with missing it. I gave myself a ridiculous deadline to make sure I didn't come home in three weeks to an even more ridiculous deadline. I'll be about 75-80% done with THE SHATTERED SKIES when I down tools on Monday and will polish it off in about a fortnight when I get back.
I'm been smashing out four thousand and five thousand word days the past couple of weeks (the benefits of a tightly plotted narrative outline) but hit a wall today.
Why? There was a tradie in the house. Usually it's electricians or plumbers. They can sniff a deadline a mile away. Today's was a glazier to fix a broken window. He was good guy. Punctual. Efficient. Did the job well. But there is something about having a worker in the house that does my head in. I just can't concentrate.
It was exacerbated by having to deal with some malware that'd snuck onto Thomas's new MacBook Air. A factory reset seemed the easiest way to nuke that gremlin, since the Air is only a couple of weeks old.
Between them they pulled me back from 4-5K all the way down 1800 words.
About to try grind out another thousand before I crash.