My first day alone, and did I get any writing done? Huh! Did I heck! I thought about it, but I failed.
As I was walking round the shops I deliberately set my mind on my novel. Told myself not to be side-tracked but to think constructively. I have been accused of solving my characters' dilemmas too quickly, so now one of the problems my protagonist faces is going to last longer. While I waited for my turn at the hole in the wall, I ignored the sun burning my back and thought of another thread to weave through my story. On my drive home I nearly forgot to get petrol, so engrossed was I in saying a conversation out loud to see if it sounded right.
And when I got home, what did I do? I made a mosquito net for the spare room - can't have my daughter being bitten next week, can I? Then I watered the OH's lime tree and chilli plants, as per instructions. Something has eaten my strawberry plant - not just the leaves, the whole damn plant - but I couldn't discover what. The washing had to be brought in, the cat fed, the bathroom walls washed, a chicken picked off the bones and made into a curry, and then it was time for a drink.
Hang on a minute - I almost forgot. This is what I wrote in the small hours of this morning, in the dark without my glasses on, because I woke up with the whole sentence in my head. It has absolutely nothing to do with anything I am writing at the moment or have written in the past.
The arrow pierced the T of my shoulder blade with a blow that knocked me over, and drew a line of fierce pain through my body until the point came out of my chest below the collar-bone. The shaft itself prevented my lung from collapsing but every breath was agony.
Now where the hell did that come from? If you can make any sense of it, please let me know!