My God. Six books in and I'm still astonished at how fucking slow writing is.

G L A C I A L

At this point, I keep doing it because the spiteful rush of looking at a complete manuscript and knowing you FINISHED THE DAMN THING is in a category of its own.

It's not even joy. It's more like a bitter satisfaction. A grim and petty victory. I just want it to be done so I can read it but nooooooooo, I have to write tens of thousands of words first. I hate it here. I mean, I love it. But I hate it. Annoying. And SO SLOW.

Wow, being embodied is really an irritant.