Fiona was here today, so the first wodge of auction stuff has finally been shipped out. Everything takes longer than it’s supposed to. The wodge that was posted today was much smaller than it should have been, for a variety of reasons, chief among them that I’m trying to write a novel in five months, and two of them are already over. The irony is that one of the reasons the auction finally went live so late is because I was preoccupied with the final throes of this summer’s PEG II crisis—and then I hurled myself into SHADOWS, needing to believe this was a story and I could write it—and now of course I’m slowly doodling my way through all your lovely bell-supportive orders—while continuing with this madness of trying to finish* SHADOWS by the end of January.** I was telling Fiona that most days I keep thinking I can maybe extrude one more paragraph, one more sentence, and then I will certainly do a stint of doodling . . . and what happens is that I hammer away on story-in-progress to the point of collapse, pirouette through about three doodles, and fall off my chair.***
Also there was a terrible accident with a cup of hot tea about ten days ago which I will leave to your imaginations because it was far too emotionally scarring for me to describe it in all its graphic horror here. Then Darkness frightened me half to death† with the projectile geysering, and as a result this week my general energy level has resembled an underachieving pancake or a badger-gnawed doormat.
But EVERYTHING takes longer than it’s supposed to. I wanted to get the first load of books off today, but the auction is finally forcing me to do something I should have done years ago, which is hire a frelling mail box for a return street address that isn’t where I live and that has business-hours staff who will sign for parcels that require a signature.†† The nearest mail-box-hire is in Zigguraton, which is not ideal, but it could be a lot worse. I examined the web site carefully, and nowhere does it say that they need a blood sample, a retina scan and £400,053.27 collateral. So I sent Fiona in to do it for me, while I kept doodling. Which, when she got back again, is how I found out about the extra requirements. ARRRGH.
Fortunately my bank’s local branch office is a full-service agency so I obtained a blood sample and a retina scan from the clerk, and then I wrote ‘£400,053.27’ on a piece of paper and he stamped it††† with the bank’s seal of authorised fiscal reality‡, and I sent Fiona off again. About half an hour later I received the critical text on Pooka: SUCCESS!
Meanwhile, however, the day was mostly over. Fiona has printed off the rest of Blogmom’s batched orders and organised as many of them as I’m likely to get through in the next fortnight, when she comes back again for a Special Auction Put-Through Day, which will include an awful lot of book-packaging, and I will keep doodling. I want to emphasise here that I enjoy the doodling‡‡—including the excuse to doodle—what is turning my eyeballs red and my hair white is the time. I don’t like making all of you wait, although I am making you wait, and the complicated stuff—the doodle-icious books, the knitting, the musical composition—is at the bottom of the pile. I’m sorry. But I am a disorganised scatterbrained‡‡‡ dipstick at best, and I do need to keep eating. . . .
But look at what Fiona brought me:
* * *
* Well, ‘finish.’ No way in any of the eleven hells^ am I going to finish finish. But I’m hoping to have it to the final-frantic-yanking phase by the end of January.
^ According to Damarian cosmology
** If I’d been in any shape to think, I should have slammed the auction into action (Blogmom did keep asking me when I was going to provide her with x or y so she could get on with building the thing) as early as possible. But although blaming myself for being a purblind git is one of my favourite leisure-time activities, it’s hard to get around the fact that when you’re in the middle of a book crisis, one of the symptoms of its being a crisis is that you can’t think.
*** I should never attempt to pirouette.
† No, three-quarters
†† Curses! snarl the carrier companies. We’ll have to think of something else!
††† Sucking on his sore finger
‡ Which is at least as reliable as anything else in the in the global financial market these days
‡‡ Although I reserve the right to laugh hysterically at some of the special requests. More about these in future blog posts.
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