Day 11 was a good day for writing. I stuck with my new approach of listening to the voices in my head, which I know sounds suspect, and it worked. Over 3500 words in a couple of hours, the actual numbers being 3,546 and 35,910. I am almost at the denouement now; I had to hold off writing it last night because I knew I wouldn’t have time before going out in the evening.
The theme of the day was Love, love of many kinds, expressed in many ways. Perhaps it is always the theme of the day if we could only recognise it.
After my writing frenzy, which I performed while Sigoth went swimming, we had to write the pub quiz for the evening. We had got behind with that so spent the rest of the morning producing 40 killer questions. We write these every couple of weeks, and I am amazed people still turn out for them. They are insatiable! But it raises money for the Village Hall, and people enjoy themselves, even if only in shouting at us, so it’s worthwhile. It is a form of love.
In the afternoon we had two things to achieve: taking rubbish to the dump, and visiting the offspring with the new house. In preparation for the latter I decided to bake some scones and take them to have with a cup of tea. Scones don’t take long. You can make them quicker than you can eat them. They only need 10-15 minutes in the oven. I knew all that and I vowed not to get distracted by writing any more until they were done.
Friends, I failed, and I want to say to say it was for love too, because I am in love with writing just now. In reality I am worried I have caught dementia from my mother. Honestly, could I not sit and remember the scones for ten minutes? Could I not ignore the voices for that long, or tell them to wait? Apparently not. And so an underlying neurosis is uncovered, that I am going senile rather than crumbling to the normal pressure of daily living like an normal human. It has to be more catastrophic and epic than just messing up. Yet in the back of my mind is another little voice, not a character this time, but maybe a devil, niggling and whispering that now I am 50 I should be looking for the early signs of dementia.
Anyway, the worst thing I did was burn the scones. I seem to have invented a new form of biscuit in the process, and we enjoyed those instead. And offspring in the new house enjoyed entertaining the parents too. So that was some more love, right there.
On the way we called at the dump and Sigoth had his very own disaster by losing the car keys just as our load of rubbish vanished into the machine’s maw. Horror ensued. The officials reversed the machine and raked it out but no key was found. We searched all the parts of the dump that Sigoth had traversed taking various items to various skips. In the end I managed to find my spare keys and off we went, resigned to having to pay out for a new key for Sigoth the next day, and trying to drown out the niggly voice now fairly shouting about Early Signs.
At offspring’s new house Sigoth made an exciting discovery of a whole extra pocket in his coat that he had not known existed. Magically it contained a car key, clearly placed there by the Car Key Fairy. Given the burnt scones (singed on the altar of NaNoWriMo, need I remind you, so not nearly so culpable as lost car keys) I was hardly able to torment him too badly. Not that I let that stop me of course. Although the voice remained. And the worry remains, and I seem to be prepared to believe dementia is catching rather than that we are both actually quite stressed. However, I still love Sigoth and that, my dears, is several other forms of love entirely.
The call and duty of love prevented me writing more words yesterday, but refreshed my soul in other, important ways, and who can ask for more.
I hope your day is filled with nothing worse.