I usually work on my novel in this position: sitting on the train on the way to work or from work, notebook on my lap.
Despite the fact that I’m surrounded by people, it’s a really lonely way to work, as writing usually is. The ideas come hard and the words come harder. In half an hour, I can do around 600 words, which is nothing in the scope of 90,000.
Mr. B and I are burnt out after a month of non-stop house doings culminating in a 35-person party that we planned and executed 80% by ourselves, which means we need a vacation. We are also broke and sans vacation days, which means we can’t take one (or at least a good one. A good vacation is defined as any vacation where you get the hell out of America for at least a week. All-inclusives in Mexico do not count as getting the hell out of America.) And, and for the past week, we’ve been fighting a monster cold, which means we can’t see anyone locally because we’ll infect them.
The other reason we can’t see anyone locally is because 98% of our friends are on vacation. But apparently not on vacation enough to not be on Facebook about it:
Which, ok. It wouldn’t be so bad if it were only one person.
But everyone and their mom is somewhere awesome.
Needless to say, I am taking a vacation.