Well, that didn't last long. Last week I spoke about dealing with Life, so I could write. And of course the very next day Life got its own back and dropped a brick on my poor little plans, flattening them with a loud squish.
So - back to trying to stuff a quart into a pint pot, time wise. Here discretion applies. If it's not on fire, it can probably wait. Or get combined with some other activity - which is why all that approaches being a meal in my fridge is a tub of Greek yogurt and on Saturday I was on an evening train, attempting to trace a logic flaw in what is trying to be the WIP, surrounded by jubilant rugby fans.
But - I'd reached the conclusion some while ago that it's often the little things that eat up the time. Putting shopping away, sorting the recycling, folding washing - and don't get me started on pairing socks! All things that have to be done if you are to avoid climbing over piles of 'stuff', but which don't amount to a really satisfying job - they nibble away at ten minutes here and there and before you know it an hour has gone and you don't really know where.
Heroines in books don't seem to have those problems. Or maybe that's just the kind of books I write? Maybe other people have chapters full of folding washing?
In the books of the moment the heroine of the novella runs a concierge service, so spends her time arranging for other peoples' chores and errands to be done, and when she gets swept off to the Riviera by the hero he is as rich as Croesus and they have staff. The book that is trying to be the the Work in Progress has a heroine who is part of a team of international wedding planners and who lives mostly out of a suitcase.
I'm wondering if there is some deep psychological thing going on here, not unrelated to my aversion to pairing socks? Subconscious? Wish fulfilment?
Maybe in the next book I'll have a chapter where the heroine does nothing but small chores.
But how to make that exciting?
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