I went to a customer’s today, and watched the director of the 500+ employee company I was meant to be charging for every minute of my time squirm as one of the factory staff challeged him about the fact that the company hadn’t paid him for the work he’d done that week. The reason being that the company simply didn’t have the funds to pay this man, even though he’d worked those hours.
Alright. So it’s the last day of September tomorrow, and my self-imposed deadline expects me to have a finished draft of the new book ready to flex its raw and ill-used muscles to the beta readers.
I can tell you with some confidence that this is not going to happen.
And for the first time in about nine years, it’s actually something substantial that’s come in my way this time, something I can’t talk about at this moment, something serious and finite and more than the idle wandering of a scattered mind of which we’re all so used to.
I am still writing.
I write every minute that I’m not fighting to keep everything together. I still can’t talk about it.
I now ask only for patience while I work on the side of my life that keeps a roof over my head work to ensure I will still have an active Internet connection in order to be able to post future updates about my endeavours.