With only 3 days to go to the end of the month I am feeling the burn like a overwrought runner. My fingers and back are aching. My eyes are feeling fried. I blurt out pieces of plot like a rambling maniac and I’m only 2ooo words away from reaching my 50 000 word goal.
Except this weekend I had a crisis.
I finished last week on a high of 45 000 words! I was elated with my efforts. The end was in sight. The book far from it’s conclusion. And then it hit me! I had eaten two pots of yoghurt that was slightly rancid but to my tired taste buds it tasted just fine. On Saturday morning after a marathon evening of writing without husband around, I hit a brick wall. I lay on the bathroom floor seeking the cold solice of the tiles. My breathing shallow and laboured. I had food poisoning. I knew it and he knew it. I crawled back to bed and slept through the rest of my weekend. Taking a few toilet breaks and a few hydration breaks here and there.
On Monday I got up for work and collapsed back into bed with Elliot’s permission but thinking about food still makes my stomach ache.
Last night he just happend to mention after filling up my plate with salad leaves and balsamic vinegar.
“Baby, you know how much I love South Africa right?’
I murmur busy with the my novel knowing here is coming a distraction of note.
‘I was thinking it’s time we move back to the UK …’
My fingers falter on the keys for just a second and I answer as I continue telling Nates’ story.
‘When were you thinking? Give me a time frame.’
I prepare for something arbitory when my husband answers.
‘April /May around that time.’
I stop typing all together. I’ve reached 48 001 words. I’m not going to get to 50 000 tonight. I’m going to have to find method in his madness. I am after all in the middle of a crisis.