25 December 2015

I am not a particularly merry person. Nor am I jolly, or cheerful, or gay or any such adjective. I am a dour creature of decided gloom, who occasionally delights in mischief and chaos. As such, the rituals of Christmas tend to bore me, and while I adore seeking out and obtaining the perfect present for a friend or family member, I find that I am less thrilled about having to procure these by a certain date. I prefer my gifts to be spontaneously endowed the moment that I find them.

However, on this Christmas day, my hand sore from the exertion of testing out my new cello bow, my thoughts wander toward wonderment that the year is almost through. I can't say that it's been a particularly enjoyable year.

I can say, with great satisfaction, that I am four or five chapters away from the end of my first novel (yet again) and this time, the draft pleases me. I believe I have, at last, reached a point at which I can stop rearranging the major plot points and focus on line-edits.

Why am I, who rarely post once a month, writing to update you on the mundane details of my life?

I am writing a particularly sticky chapter that isn't flowing well at all. Generally I take this to mean that I should delete it all and not write it, but I have elected to push through it (probably to my later regret; these scenes never seem to turn out well) and have only a thousand more words to go.

only a thousand more words to go. 

There are some days where I loathe my choice of profession.