Ladies and gentlemen, we have ten thousand words of book.
(Actually, we have 10172. Not counting the 2124 of Gifford flashback, that isn’t really in the book yet.)
This is the point at which I start believing I’m writing a book. Ten thousand is a nice round number; it convinces me I have something of substance on my hands, rather than flimsy shreds. Unfortunately, soon after this we hit the stretch where adding a thousand words doesn’t seem to make much difference in the total, where I run and run and get no closer to the end. We call this the “hamster on a treadmill” stretch.
But let’s not race to meet future miseries.
Authorial sadism: making Lune be wrong, wrong, wrongitty wrong. But it’ll be fun for her later.
LBR tally: love. The Goodemeades are so sweet.
I may or may not write one more scene this weekend; we’ll see. But then it’s off to London, and then I’ll be trip-blogging. It’s all Midnight Never Come, all the time, here at Swan Tower! (I promise I’ll try to have some other content, really I will.)