First sweep of proofing and copy-editing is done. Now I have to take a pickaxe to this little baby. I've already made the entire opening page disappear. It's just gone. The first part of the novel I wrote - bizarrely, since I rarely start at the beginning - just selected, deleted, gone. Whatever the book has become, it's moved past that opening page. *blink* I'm eyeing up futher murders, too. Mutilations, tortures, beatings and nipple twists, all the while screaming: "Why can't you sort out your narrative? What's the answer to these plot crossovers? Do I really need you as a character? Is this all just a pile of wank?"
I'm sure it's not. But right now it's a big pile of nothing. I have the first draft blues. And a filthy procrastination habit. Normally, I'd succumb - to reading in the bath, ice cream and 30 Rock with my husband, but he's abandoned me.
He's been hit by a creative wave and has locked himself in the spare room while he whacks out a portrait. (That sounds WAY more masturbatory than it really is. I'm pretty sure that's all he'll be whacking off, but hey, if that's the price of art...) He'll be in there for the next couple of days - oblivious to time, hunger, acceptable levels of mess and nudity (somehow his painting sessions end with a lack of clothes - the ones he's been wearing becoming so covered in oils that they're not really worth wearing any more). This at least means that my evenings are lonely, which means I'll probably get some work done. It also means my weekend is going to be spent being sole childcarer, which IN TURN means that I'll be so stir crazy for a literary fix (through the grass-is-greener twist that I can't have it right now), that I'll work my little arse off the moment the womb fruit is asleep.
It's a win-crazy-artistic-sleepless-backache-everythingiscoveredinoilpaint-win situation.