The writing of Read Me is going really well. Last week I had to take a mental health break. Had to. Then I got back in the saddle, or the chair, should I say, and got my fingers on the keyboard. In total, so far in June, I’ve written 26,359 words and I’m not finished for Friday night yet.
I’ve gone speeding past the 35k-word mark I originally thought would be the word count total of this “novella” and now the outline has 24 chapters and a projected total of 70k.
I’m sure you’ll understand why the greater part of my attention just now is on my book. It’s a good feeling. It also means I’ve not given myself time off to think about “What should I blog about?” So to keep you guys entertained I’m just going to relate the story of how I massively embarrassed myself this week.
I was out with a friend (see, that was my first mistake, leaving the house) when we walked past a guy I recognised on the street. Then it hit me, he was my doctor. (I know, it sounds weird not recognising your own doctor but I haven’t had an appointment in a while, you don’t always get the G.P. you’re registered with and he was in a completely different environment or context.)
I explained to my friend who he was, that I’d nicknamed him “Doctor Dreamy,” and that I was seriously considering breaking my own legs as an excuse to see him again.
…and I realised he was walking up behind us because he’d gone up the wrong garden path to what I presumed was a home visit and was now looking for the correct address kill me now please please please I wanna die.
After consultation with mutuals on Twitter I have come to realise the only solution is to enter the Witness Protection Program, then to fake my own death, then to actually die and bury myself in a shallow grave so he never finds me.