Oh, am so unmotivated today. I'm 25% of the way there and starting to suffer from mid-novel slump. Am tired and drained and can think of a hundred things I'd rather be doing. Like blogging, or changing nappies, or scrubbing out the fridge (something green and sticky has exploded in there), or digging in the garden or walking the dog, or hoovering. Yes, hoovering. That sounds a lot more fun than writing.
But oh the guilt. Oh the agony, the self-hate, the loathing... have even tried bribing self with violet crumble (ate it), and spent the afternoon shovelling in party food (Melbourne cup do - lost, lost badly, I shall miss those $4. Actually one of the girls got the trifecta in the Mother's Group sweep. The TRIFECTA. I mean c'mon. Is that fair?) and am now telling self that I can have a take-away if I write 1,000 words. Of course I'll have the take-away anyway as I simply cannot be arsed cooking anything and the thought of an omlette makes me want to die from boredom. DIE I tell you.