That's the word that just about sums up the way I feel at the moment. WHY did I think it would be a good idea to move flat while I'm rewriting my novel? You'd think a (small) one bedroom flat wouldn't take long to tidy up, reorganise and redecorate would you?
One week on and I'm still nowhere near sorted although I have now repainted the hallway, bathroom and living room. That sounds good but they've only had one coat of magnolia each. I still need to do a second coat AND a first coat in the kitchen and bedroom and gloss all of the skirting boards, picture rails and doors. I also have another box of flatpack to assemble and I'm back to work tomorrow.
Will this hell never end?
I've also been feeling horribly guilty about my rewrite and forced myself to sit down and do something this evening (ignoring the plaintive "I'm blotchy, paint me too!" call from the ceiling).
I didn't do a huge amount (just didn't have the stamina) but managed another 2.2% taking me up to 35.5% done. At the moment I feel very much like I'm peering down a long tunnel and can see bugger all, but I'm sure once I hit 50% the batteries in my rewrite torch will give off a dim glow (sorry, shit metaphor, told you I was tired!).
Right, time to cook some dinner, watch some TV and attempt to unwind.
29,386 / 82,715 words rewritten (35.5% of novel)