I've landed two new contracts in the last week. It was an accident, honest, I didn't mean to! One is for a long-standing and much-loved client, and the other is for a long-standing and much-loved friend, so I didn't feel able to turn either of them down. They're both interesting projects, and of course it's all good for the CV and the bank balance, but I've got a novel to write, dammit!
Lots of people have left lovely encouraging comments on my 'goals for May' post, but I can already feel them slipping from my grasp. I haven't touched the novel since Monday, and although I have a free weekend, I have to do some paid work and also some domestic work. My Paramour does a lot, but I can't expect him to do everything. I've promised to go to Tesco, as our salad drawers currently contain half a punnet of wrinkly cherry tomatoes and half a head of bendy celery, and I don't think we'll manage to make much gourmet veggie nosh with those. He, bless him, is going to make home-made pizzas for tea. He makes the best pizzas in the world, he usually makes the dough by hand but he's going to have a go at doing it in our new breadmaker this time to see how that works. I'll cook a huge vat of chilli tomorrow and we can eat that, in various guises (burritos, yum!), through the week.
Maybe, if I get enough of my paid work done today, I can do some work on the novel tomorrow. I think I've said that to myself every day this week. I'm keeping up with the short stories, but I find them easier to fit into odd nooks and crannies of time. And I want to do some photography... and book a holiday or two... and reduce my TBR pile...
Could somebody please invent an eight-day week?