Yesterday, I wrote 2,280 words and found THE END of Chapter Three of The Drowning Girl: A Memoir. The words spill from me in an almost alarming torrent. Since November 18th, I've written ~31,060 words of fiction, amounting to "The Prayer of Ninety Cats" and chapters Two and Three of The Drowning Girl: A Memoir. Those two chapters, whose combined word count totals 19,218 words, have been written since December 5th. I know writers who write more than this. However, most of them write in drafts. I expect myself to produce a polished "final draft" the first time through (and, generally, I do). Regardless, I usually write a lot, but not this much.
And I'm exhausted.
No wonder, then, that my reclusiveness is likely worse that it's ever been. The last time I left the House was December 7th, but it was only for a couple of hours to run errands with Spooky. As of today, I've not been Outside for ten days. Before the 7th, I'd not be Out since November 24th, another trip to the market. Thirteen days before the 7th of December, and then ten afterward. Which means I've only been Outside about two hours in the last twenty-four days.
I'm not even sure what to make of this, except I have no wish to be this way. Today, I'm leaving the House, though I have no idea where I'll go. It can't be near the Xmas insanity.
Good news yesterday from Dark Horse, which I'll share as soon as I am able.
Spooky is watching a video online about white deer, albino deer...
Last night, Shaharrazad and Suraa made Level 81. Weird to be leveling again, even if it won't last long.
I think that's enough for now. Spooky's going to trim my hair, and I'm going to spend some time squinting at the sun.