I’ve been writing and typing up my murder mystery, The Body in the Brook, in fits and spurts. I’m probably making it more laborious than it has to be by writing everything longhand in yellow legal pads first. But, you know, I’m a lo-fi kind of girl, and I like the idea of carrying a physical copy of my nonsensical figuring stuff out version. I like taking it to a cafe and not being afraid some Tower rat’s going to swipe my laptop. Though, if somebody did swipe my laptop, they’d be sorely disappointed! And probably a little squicked out by the sticky stains from the Loquat Jam Disaster of 2009. They wouldn’t know it was only ill-fated jam.
I’m not done rewriting/typing, and I’ve already hit 10%! That means I need to step up the mystery solving thing. By the time I hit 25%, I need to hit a major plot point. I love having the little word counter at the bottom of this blog page, because after reading so many novels on my Kindle, I’m really seeing how no matter what the genre is, there are certain benchmarks. I’m sure the genre stuff (mysteries, romances, sci-fi, steampunk, etc.) does this on purpose– I’m not so sure the lit stuff does, but it happens rather dependably at 25% intervals just like genre fiction.
No recipes, even though I cooked. No Mama Drama, even though there is always something on the dramatic horizon. Right now, I’m living to read my kid Roald Dahl’s The BFG in the nighttime and write my own stuff in the daytime, and I’m pushing everything else aside. I just don’t want to know. Do you ever just get to the point where you simply couldn’t care about all the little pinpricks of worry? It’s like worry overload. I’ve been so down for so long, that I just couldn’t care less.
So there it is. Apathy born from caring too much!