I have been so ill this past week that I have been fit for little but sleeping and watching movies.
Yesterday, I felt well enough to make up for time lost and managed to type almost 4,000 words, bringing my novel to 60,173. It had been two and a half weeks since I passed 50k, and I hardly wrote 500 words that first week.
I doubt that I will write much more for a while now.
Firstly, other commitments draw me to London and then Dublin. It's hard to write on the road.
Secondly, the plot is thinning and needs careful consideration before I progress.
The unpleasant thing about illness is that it saps us of energy, dulling our senses and emotions. If you cannot feel a story, you cannot write it.
Better to retire from writing until health returns and imagination once again ignites. I am so pleased with the novel so far that anything less than a brilliant ending would prove a dreadful disappointment.
I leave you with the last thing that I wrote.
History is a dark and unforgiving thing. All that history is can never be altered or undone. That is the nature of history. It is set. Immutable. Absolute.
There, on that night, I was granted a glimpse of history unwritten.
I laughed, and looked away.