I swept the drive, chopped up dead roses, paid bills, dealt with the plumber, shopped for food, did the washing, checked email, read through old chapters, filled the day till four o'clock. Sadly the new definition of a serious day's work includes shifting my novel forwards so the day stuttered towards its close and began to seem irredeemable.
One thought was to take a hike and see if ideas popped into my head. The other was to sit ay my desk and refuse to budge till the ideas I already had made it into words.
I've done it. 604 new words typed in (I find I'm addicted to the computer's capacity for instant wordcounts). So long as I rev back up to a thousand tomorrow, I'm back to being a professional.
Professionals of course get paid. I'm back to speculative writing, which I had sworn off. This is one of those books that now has to be written though, it's built up that sort of momentum, taken a hold of my life. I'm staking a lot on some editor recognizing this wild book as the masterpiece I take it to be. Of course I would be a fool to bank on that. I'm a novelist, I can dream, and the book is being brought into existence. That's one version of a perfect world.