Folks, I finally turned in the first draft of the work-for-hire novel I was writing that had been driving me batty. I was two weeks and one day late from the original deadline, how mortifying. No feedback yet—though my heart, head, and gut are telling me I didn’t do such a good job, as this was not the book for me to be writing, but my head, heart, and gut are known to be immensely insecure so I am not sure if I should listen or not. I’m waiting for revision notes… so I can’t work on it right now.
I have no other freelance projects to work on, not a one. Such a relief, actually.
And my first real novel is awaiting notes on the outline, plus the contract, so I shouldn’t really continue writing that either.
Which means that there was absolutely no reason at all for me to get up so early this morning. I could still be sleeping! So what am I doing here, all set up at my weekday writing spot, plugged in and raring to go?
Habit, I guess.