Oh, man. This isn’t looking good. The word count for Eat Me, I mean. Well, it is and it isn’t. As per usual, Yours Truly has decided “This will be X number of words long,” and the universe has come along, whipped out its wang and pissed all over my mad, crazy idea of brevity and getting the book done on whatever date I choose. Because of course the universe is an incontinent dudebro with no social skills. Don’t @ me.
I just (yes, at one in the morning) checked my supersekrit files for current and projected word counts and uh-maaaaazingly, contrary to my guesstimate, EM isn’t going to be 20k words long at all. Excel reckons 5 more than that. Yay, I can charge more when I publish it but boo, it’ll take a wee bit longer than expected.
Why do I do this to myself? Why do I consistently underestimate my own word counts? It’s only happened with every single book I’ve ever written. Well, except for those written to contract and even then I had to shave off a few pages here and there to fit the publisher’s requirements.
Allowing for Book #2 in the sequence being the same recalcitrant length (*burp*, ooh sorry; that thesaurus I swallowed didn’t go down easy), I could even get that finished in October, too. BUT LET’S NOT TRY TO RUN BEFORE WE CAN WALK.
Also, the more observant (obsessive) amongst you may have noticed I have reactivated my Twitter account. This isn’t because Jack and Biz et al have stopped being dogbeasting chucklefucks, but so I can avoid URL squatters. I still plan to stay away from the place while I simmer about their Nazi-gobbling tendencies…except for that recent tweet about Boris Johnson being as foul as the crusted-over cockcheese under the infected and suppurating flap of Satan’s foreskin.
God, I fucking love words.
Including “tea”, “tired”, “Kindle” and “fuckity night”.