Daisy Bateman

Twenty-Four Thousand Eight Hundred and Seventy-Three

That’s how may words I have to write in the next five days to make my (set months ago) goal of making it fifty-thousand words in the book I’m working on by the new year. (That should get me up through the Italian restaurant dinner, the people who think they’re hunting vampires, the reality show celebritard,  and the guy from the EPA. Also, at least two more squid attacks. Maybe three.) I have the entire week off from work and I plan to spend every day latched to my computer*, writing my little heart out, chasing down my artificial deadline.

I’m pretty sure I’m not going to make it.

UPDATE: I’m not going to make it.

UPDATE II: I didn’t make it.

*Except for tomorrow afternoon, when I’m getting together with Abigail in the city. Also, lunch.

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