It’s that time of year again where every waking moment becomes one long round of writing, revisions, grasping for the perfect turn of phrase or most appropriate euphemism, more writing and finally handing in the finished project to be read and hopefully passed off (without any typos or spelling mistakes). The deadline looms and as always I’m determined to get in there before it actually arrives if at all possible.
Nope, not the editor and book number 2, but the headteacher and my end of year reports.
I don’t know what the overall word count is and I doubt it comes anywhere close to a novel but handing them in gives me the same sense of relief as getting the revised manuscript sent back. Finishing a book has nothing on these babies! I’m usually pretty good at tying up loose ends and spotting plot holes, though the eventual readers are a lot more demanding than I imagine my readers will be, having more of a vested interest in the hero or heroine of the document. I can’t get away with sketchy research, nor can I pad it out with a sword fight (parents of six year olds tend to get upset about that sort of thing).
So for the time being it’s heads down, focus on the glass of wine that awaits me next weekend and try to squeeze in a bit of the ‘other’ job if I’m still conscious by 10pm.
If round about chapter thirteen my hero suddenly starts to express his opinion on the heroine’s ability to recall number bonds you’ll know why.