Write Write Write

I this point I shall finish My novel on 8th January. Not the best. My brain feels like sludge. It’s not useful that there’s only one room I feel safe to be in. I feel like I’m in a goldfish bowl. Builders visible from every window. The noise is jarring. Hammering from the roof, planks crashing against the side. The rain typically soothes me. walks on a grey day or cosy evenings cooped up listening to the rhythm of rain hitting the window. Now I worry that it’s just going to delay works or let water into my house.

Feeling a little down. Also like i’m a privileged idiot complaining about having an extension. I cannot wait for it to be over. Soon it’s my birthday and it’s barely registered, what with my husband being ill and the house in chaos. The next few days I’ll try and get out, maybe write at a cafe.

I shall make myself a cup of tea, take time away from the screen and try practising some good self-care.

Today I wrote 1304 words

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