Since yesterday's post I've been mulling over why I can't seem to get around to my next novel-related task. I'm not in the middle of any short stories. I do a bit of I.T. consulting, but I've nothing urgent on at the moment. I only have about three hours a day when I can work at anything, and right now I should be hard at it. My main outstanding task is a full read-through of the novel, reviewing my latest improvements.
This morning I realised what's wrong. I enjoy it too much. The jokes are perfectly attuned to my personal sense of humour. The sad bits are precision geared to making me cry. Whenever I glance at a page I get sucked in for half an hour.
Stiletto takes about four hours to read. It feels like a criminal waste of four hours when I could be doing something more objectionable, like work. The guilt level is up there with pulling a sickie, going for a walk by the seaside and sitting on a rock with an Agatha Christie and a glass of wine.
Hmm. Maybe I'll start that revision now.
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