With my folks visiting this weekend, I didn’t get much in the way of writing (or other) work accomplished. But I did manage to complete this editing pass on Part 3 of The Stupid Novel, and I started Part 4 on the train this morning.
I’ve said it before, but it bears whinging about again: my creativity appears to be indelibly hardwired to my stress center–and possibly my too-many-hamsters-on-my-plate center. Why is it inevitable that the words clamor to be put down and the story inspires with a jackhammer when I don’t have time to write? What exactly is the cosmos trying to tell me?
Stupid cosmos.
