Here are today’s word metrics for Ghost of a Chance, the sequel to Restless Spirits:
Today’s word count: 1,403
Novel so far: 25,006
Words of fictoin this year: 7,879
Last week’s writing schedule was thrown off by a doctor’s appointment and a hefty freelance work load. That load’s a bit lighter this week (so far), so I’m going to do my best both to be more consistent and to make up some ground. Otherwise my soft goal of finishing this draft on Leap Day is just a pipe dream, as by my estimate I’ve still got at least 60,000 more words to go.
After today’s writing session I let my husband feed me a slice of leftover frozen pizza, which is NOT on the approved weekday healthy foods menu, but he needed to make some room in the fridge, so I caved. I made up for it by doing the entire first leg of that kickboxing workout, which did not kill me, although for a few minutes there as I lay prone on the floor afterwards it seemed touch-and-go.
I spent the weekend watching more football than I’d planned. I’m not really into football, or sports in general, but Mr. B is a good guy who usually at least makes an attempt to enjoy the things I enjoy, so I reciprocate by trying to at least pay enough attention to football to be able to have an intelligent conversation about his favorite team. That would be the Broncos, by the by, and while we’re happy they won, that game was painful to watch, even for someone who wasn’t that invested in it. I hope they can get their act together before next week because BOO Tom Brady.
Oh, and also, our living room TV died right before the game started. So yay for that. We ended up watching it on our tiny, ancient bedroom TV. The big TV’s crapping out isn’t that big a deal, since we mainly used it to watch local news and football, and now football season is almost over. But we watch everything else online, anyway, so we’ll survive. Though I suppose we won’t be hosting any Super Bowl gatherings this year.
Anyway. Here’s an unspoilery snippet of today’s output:
“He’s not talking,” said Doug. He went from the closet to the coffee table in the living room, where the ghost box sat in the middle. “Either that or this thing’s not working.” He looked at her, his face anxious. “Is he here? Can you see him?”
Chris looked around. A breakfast bar was all that separated the living room from the kitchen, and Jimmy wasn’t visible in either room. “Is there a place he might go to rest?” she asked. “A place that’s just his?”
“His room,” said Doug, and led her into a hallway. He paused at the first door. “I’d always planned to turn it into a home gym or something, but I never got around to it.” He placed his hand on the knob, and seemed to consider what he’d just told her. “Or maybe on some level I just knew that was a bad idea.” He let that thought hang there as he opened the door to reveal a typical teen boy’s room. The posters on the wall were straight out of the late ‘Nineties, and suddenly Chris felt herself transported back to junior high. Her eyes scanning the room, she stepped inside and smiled. On the bed, stretched out amid scattered Scrabble tiles, lay Jimmy, sound asleep. He was barely visible—just an outline, really—but easy to see if you knew what to look for.
And if you had a knack for seeing that sort of thing, of course.