“My life is one demd horrid grind.”

— Charles Dickens, Nicholas Nickleby, ch. 64 (1839)

So I’m still over necessary word count overall, but part of that is relying on one or two big bursts earlier in the month. My dailies have mostly been below word count. I’m kind of in a creative trough, cranking out a lot of dialog without a lot of meaning.

I’m feeling a bit like I should have someone walk in with a gun. Which would be … kind of weird in the particular place I am.

I need to outline more about what happens next. I’ve got a target on the far end, and a vague sense of what happens in-between. Maybe I just need to push forward to a different scene. Maybe I need to sacrifice something to the Muse.

Regardless, I think I am spent for the evening. I’ll think about it (as usual) as I try to drift off to sleep tonight.