I’ve written an obscene number of pages today. I’ve decided a more appropriate title for Stay With Me is the fucking book that will not end. Catchy eh?
It’s after midnight. I’ve been up at least until 2 every night this week. I don’t function well without sleep.
I don’t even know how many pages I’ve written today because I’ve just kept writing and writing. Close one chapter, begin another, thinking the whole time, “shouldn’t I have finished this story by now?”
I still have a galley to finish, two blurbs to write, final copies of three novellas to run down and I just got line edits back on another book, and all this stuff is due like yesterday.