Which I Suppose Explains Where My Time Went

Posted on 27/08/2013 by


I’m procrastinating writing synopses right now because I’m horrible at it. Instead of fixing this by practicing and getting better my current plan is to avoid them entirely. That’ll work, right?

Okay, since I cannot convince myself that’s true the only way I can justify procrastinating is by doing something useful. Something else I’ve been putting off. Like going through all the notes I’ve made in the last five months.

See, I have a file that I dump everything into when I don’t have time. The idea that popped into my head mid-edit. The snatch of dialogue I was distracted by during dinner. The obvious why-didn’t-I-think-of-that-earlier explanation for something in my book world that I realised when someone asked me something unrelated. The totally random crap that sluices through my head in the middle of the night. Etcetera.

The idea is that I sort through this stuff regularly. Every day or every week. File it, tag it, be able to find it again. But with life stuff and travelling and prioritising finishing the book over what is essentially an admin chore… well, I haven’t. For about five months.

For the last couple of months I’ve been actively avoiding looking at it too closely for fear of what I might find. But today I did. Today I bravely avoided what I was meant to be doing and tackled my scratch notes.

Yesterday, I knew that in the last five months I’d written around forty thousand words of Drink Me and done a complete second draft. Turns out I also wrote more than sixty thousand words of… other stuff. Which I suppose explains where my time went.

Two stick figure people. One is standing over a second, whose skull is open to reveal a number of untidy red squiggly lines. The first figure is apparently removing these with tweezers and placing them in a bucket. Caption reads: There are so many of them.