Writing has always been to me what the Ring was to Gollum. It is a gift and a burden. A source of solace and exasperation. My precious.
Today, once more, I sit in the few extra minutes I have during the day and attempt to close the gap and finish one more draft. Perhaps this will be the final one. Perhaps it will reveal a devistating fault that will result in forty-two more drafts. Only time will tell.
All I know for certain is that I sit at 48,621 words. Only 1,379 short of a novel. Never have 1,379 words been so difficult to write.
My attempts for today are finished. Hopefully by the end of tomorrow, I will only need 1,026 more.