This is what happens when I get the resources I need too late to use them effectively. No blame, no blame, all three of us have had more than plenty to do, and I got the resources as soon as it was practical. And it's certainly not my co-authors' fault that the material is impenetrable - half the rationale for the book is the impenetrability (and thus practical inutilty) of the material.
Katherine is in Leeds today, jobhunting; Ana is always hard to contact (busy woman, and not yet au fait with the Net). So I have at least an afternoon waiting before I can get feedback. The feedback will be good - the other two know their onions when it comes to this stuff; I'm just the Hack Writer. So I'm going to be sensible and productive. I'm going to have a bath. I'm going to change my clothes. I'm going to eat.
This is one of the problems with being a - damn it all, I'm not 'neurotypical'. My head is definitely not ordinary. I'm simply not as generally and continually messed-about by the way my head's wired as some other poor buggers are. Anyway. Yes. When I get into the writing groove, all else goes by the board. Gimme tea, gimme ciggies, gimme a kbd and prose will stream from my fingertips in effortless ribbons of pure gold. This is all very well indeed, but a good writing session leaves me exhausted, stinking and starved. When the Pierian spring is flowing, all else goes to the devil. Or was it the Castalian fount? Ne'mind. You've had yer culture for the day.
So I shall be good. I shall bathe. I may - O heavens! - shave. Clothes would be good too, not the ones I've slept in for the last couple of nights? days? diurnal periods, at least, no matter how I've punctuated them with writing and not-writing. I shall eat, and properly. Then I shall put away the writing. I shall start working through the reference material, marking up, annotating, being a different flavour of beaver. Then I shall be sociable this evening, and go for a spot of roleplaying, then come back and hit Griff up in chat briefly, then go to bed.
Because the whole damn thing will start again, racked up a notch, tomorrow.
You're all very good, you know, telling me to take good care of myself, and Jus is an absolute hero. I do appreciate it. But honestly, I can't do it, not when the insanabile furor scribendi comes on me. It's a jag, a drunk, a bender, and you know what that means. I have to work it out until it stops. Then I pick up the pieces, take a deep breath, and... yeah. I should never be allowed to write. It's not good for me.
I don't like writing draft chapters, no matter how much of a bunny the publisher is. I want to do the whole thing, and I want to do it properly. I have a degree of amour propre that says "Damme, sir! how dare you! prove that I am a writer, forsooth?" But yes yes yes, I know. All this is is merely a small demonstration that the three of us can come up with the goods. And the goods are juicy - I can't see our publisher wanting to pass this up, even if we only turn in two sides of hand-written scrawl by this Friday. Oh, no doubt we'd get the "tut, tut" and the "Are you sure?" and all that, but this book is a go. Even if the PDS won't fund us, we're still going to write it, dammit. It needs to be born. And heh, if the PDS do pass it up, we then get to live on the royalties forever :)
Before anyone asks: IPD is Idiopathic Parkinson's Disease - the ordinary bog-standard type, not a result of insult or injury or one of the Parkinson's Plus weirdies like Multiple System Atrophy, Shy-Drager Syndrome, Progressive Supranuclear Palsy or Olivopontocerebellar Degeneration; LBD is Loewy-Body Dementia, which either is or isn't comorbid with IPD - you reads yer authorities and you takes yer choice.