Gnrrrrlbghdays

Good morning, ladies and gents, and in an effort of trying to finally wake myself up at 14:07 on a sunday morning, I'm going to try to update my blog.

So, I did finish chapter 10, the one that was causing me so much heartache and annoyance and so on and so forth. I still think that it was a pointless waffle of a grand total of 13,000 words - all of which I could almost cut out of the novel, and have no less of a story. Oh well, it all counts for a wordcount, and after chapter 10, there is chapter 11, and further chapters. I did write chapter 11, too, in a stretch of will - and now am currently stuck at chapter 12. Seriously, is this going to be like this for the rest of the month? The beginning of the month was so easy, so painless - and now everything's just weighing me down. Like today, I have nothing else to do but to write and go to work at six, and I've been awake for some, mmm, maybe three hours, and I've written a grand total of some hundreds of words.

You see, on the best of days, I can write more than 2K in an hour. Right now, my head feels like... Well, you can read from this detached rambling what it feels like. I can't get a hold of my words, since they're somehow out of reach, as if someone amputated the writing part of my brain when I was sleeping. I hate being such a nocturnal creature - I function in the mornings, though only enough to eat breakfast and not kill everyone around me from tiredness, and after those first hours of being awake, I basically shut down until it's 20:00 pm.

[insert descriptive cursing and ripping out hair and destroying curtains or the like here]

Why does it seem like I only have things to complain about? Well, it's maybe because currently, I'm a grand total of 25,000 words away from the quota of reaching my goal at the end of the month, and I STILL have 43 chapters in the total novel and am struggling through number 12. So even if I somehow manage to finish 12 today, I'll have 31 to go.

And my cellphone is dying.

O IT IS FUTILE

... Here, have an excerpt.

“Oh, Logic help me!” he cried, his pen now motionless on the paper, his alarmed eyes now dropping toward this motionless pen, “I have stopped writing, I have stopped writing, oh, the words are not coming to me and life has no meaning, as the words— Oh, oh, I will have to kill myself, there is no reason to live, no reason at all, without words there is no meaning—” And so the ramble went on, the scholar’s eyes darting from his paper to his pen to each member of the fellowship, consecutively, to Logic’s realm’s archway (confirming Nicholas’ earlier assumptions), and back to his paper again. The fellowship, not having expected such an abrupt outrage over something that seemed so very little to them, was in a communal state of shock, not knowing what to do about this frozen-in-place though frantic scholar, now threatening to kill himself in ways that the fellowship’s poor ears should not be subjected to.