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In other words, dear reader, I pulled it off.

Yes, this is me today. Really.

My rewrite is clocking in at an amazing 96K right now (that’s amazing mostly because I started at 101K and was convinced, halfway through, that I was going to wind up adding another 6 or 7K to the tally).

I’ve written 53,000 words in the last 28 days, or so Word tells me (hah: takeΒ that, failed NaNo attempt), I’ve become so much the definition of antisocial that my long-suffering husband is probably wondering if I’ve developed a very specific form of agoraphobia, and yesterday midway through the final 11-hour writing marathon, Her Dogginess flung herself down on the floor beside my desk and made this astonishing rrrroOOOOOWWwwar! noise that conveyed her boredom and her feelings on whose fault said boredom was fairly effectively.

Being a writer can be a bitch. Living with one, I suspect, is almost always a bit of a bitch.

Anyway. I have no idea what to do with myself this morning.

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