After a week of writing, my friends have, indeed, gotten what they wanted: the shopping mall got hit by terrorists. I thought I could avoid it, but then I went and typed the phrase “the nice, quiet shop.” And we all know what happens when someone uses the Q-word.
And it went from a quirky possibly-short-story to a novel, in order to resolve that.
Somewhere along the way, I started researching diesel engines, fire codes, the use of counterfeit designer clothes & accessories sales to fund terrorist groups, and high-end shoes. When it goes from a joke to research, I think it’s officially become a project.
I’m waiting on feedback from a nurse for conditions that fit a set of symptoms, (which is not an imposition, because I haven’t gotten to that scene yet), and checking clothing descriptions with a costume designer.
Because I really needed to be cramming this around the regular job, typing this much with a sprained wrist, and… still need to mow the lawn and beta-read two friends’ projects.
Is there an unwritten rule somewhere about productivity being an inverse of how much time you have to do it?