I am almost at the end of my second book edits. In the process, I have become a feral creature. I am fueled entirely by tea, chips, (fries to some of you), and cake. My usual beauty upkeep, getting my nails done, dying my roots, exercising, all of it has gone to the dogs in pursuit of literary greatness. I can concentrate only on one great thing at a time, and I’ve chosen my craft. To hell with my body.
What this also means, is that I have spent all week manically typing away as the final deadline looms, I’m in the last stretch now, but I’ve written over five thousand words a day, for the last week. My brain is completely battered, I barely know my own name and I’m practically dribbling with exhaustion as I type this to you. Which means I don’t have anything charming, or insightful, or profound, or even marginally entertaining to tell you this Sunday. But I didn’t want to not write to you.
So, I thought I’d give you, my darling you, a little extract from my new book. I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to do this, nor am I allowed to, but I’m also pretty sure that my agent is not signed up to this newsletter, so I’m hoping she’ll never see it.
This is one of my favourite chapters in the book, and it may or may not make the cut. In the earlier edits of the book it’s been suggested that I axe this section, but I can’t bear to let it go, not just yet.