Well you will understand, fellow bloggers, when I tell you why. It comes down to two simple things. 1) writing is not a real job. And 2) bed bugs are a pain in the ass.
You see I love my best friend who is also my roommate but I’ve come to the conclusion that there is no way to write when I’m living with her. Beleive me I have tried. Usually when we are sitting at home enjoying the amicable quiet of our thoughts we don’t bother each other. But when I want to sit down at my computer she suddenly has something burning to tell me. When I mention that I’m trying to work she reminds me I haven’t gotten paid for it. Seems legit right? No. No it doenst. Usually she would read in the evening but with all of our books wrapped up in black plastic garbage bags you can imagine that she finds other things to entertain herself with. Like movies and television. Things she almost never does but because for some reason we decided to have bed bugs at exactly the same time as nanowrimo, she has little else to do with her time.
I was literally sitting down on November 1st to start my first draft when she came out of the room to tell me there was one crawling on her bed. It of course totally explained the weird pimples I had been getting but suffice to say it put a major kink in my writing schedule.
So I know when you hear I only made it to 36k words in my book you won’t hold it against me. That you will understand why I didn’t make it. That the events that transpired will make for a very interesting autobiography indeed.
Which by the way is incredibly difficult to write when you do not have the head space to work in. Distractions galore. Bad timing for the schedule and let’s face it difficult material to begin with. I shall revisit the subject when I can do so in my own home. Unadulterated. Pure singleness.
It’s ok. I can still blog.