Lack of motivation, writer's block and brainfreeze brought on by the sudden onslaught of winter are deadly in combination. Particularly when you write for a living, and have a huge story--which you've been (supposedly) working on for the past 1.5 months--to start, er, I mean, finish.
All I want to do is curl up in bed and read a novel--no, not the one I've been reading for the past three months, and refuse to give up on because I want to start my book review blog (yes, yes it's still on its way) reviewing what might be the most unsuspenseful suspense novel ever written. And I hardly ever read novels, except as treats. I know, I know. I couldn't write one to save my life. But then, I don't claim to be a writer of suspense novels, do I? I'm just a deadly dull journo with writer's block.
But I may, in the spirit of Christmas, extend some grace to the author, and be a little less mean when I review it. If I finish it before Christmas, that is. And if I actually review it. Or I might extend him some more grace, and stop reading it altogether. I'm sure he'd be hugely relieved.
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