Weary Bones

Tonight, I'm just tired.

I shouldn't be, really.  I'm 87,000 words into a new novel.  Yes, you read that right.  Eighty-seven thousand words done, which leaves another thirteen thousand to go if I'm aiming for an even hundred thousand.

This isn't a Markhat novel, either.  It's something new and completely different.  And it's nearly done.

I should be turning cartwheels.  Shouting. Frolicking in sun-dappled meadows in slow motion while a string ensemble provides soothing background music.

Okay, maybe not frolicking.  I'm too old to effectively frolic without risking a hasty, expensive trip to the ER afterward.  Too, the visual was disturbing.  So, new policy:  No frolicking.

But why am I so lethargic, all the sudden?

Maybe it's just physical.  It's been a rough couple of weeks.

Whatever the cause, I need it fixed, right now.  I need to stick THE END on this new one, and get moving on the edits.  But right now I'm having trouble focusing.  A few minutes ago I wrote the same sentence twice, and while some might hail such repetition as a brilliant example of the new avant-garde it will just get me rejected.

I think what I need is coffee.  And a new day.  This one is shot.

I'll leave you with the title of the new work-in-progress.  It's called All the Paths of Shadow.  I love the title. I can almost see the cover art, too.  And the movie posters.  Especially those.

Now that's the kind of thinking that might just restore me.