Another bus journey home and I'm writing in the margins of some magazine I picked up in a bar. It's this weird moment in transit, between work and home, that I have this weird urge just to write... and I never normally do. But why shouldn't I? Writing in my notebook seems too formal. I don't carry my laptop around with me. But there's something very... nitty-gritty about just scrawling in the blank spaces between paragraphs in some magazine I picked up. I love it. I just hope my hand writing is readable tomorrow when I write it all up. I was sat looking like a head case on the bus, and then walking home, darting between street lights, I couldn't stop. I'll have to be sure to take some photos of it, just that it's there for posterity's sake.
No word count today, but I'll give you the total that's written up: 57, 208. That's pretty damn cool. By tomorrow I hope to hit 60,000. Then my endgame is 70,000 for the whole novel. I just need to commit to that final push now. If I can get it done this weekend, even better.
Blimey.
Oh, and when I'm done, I'll give you the full lowdown on what I'm doing.
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