One hand raised above the waterline. Not waving, just drowning.

Because If You’ve Not Written A Novel In Lockdown You’re Just Not Trying

(Or: why applying your life to other people’s is a moronic thing to do)

I keep seeing people complaining about how unproductive they’ve become, writing-wise, since the world went to shit and entered lockdown some five or six weeks ago.  That it’s difficult juggling working from home with a home life that suddenly decides it’s going to intrude at all kinds of random times (usually while they’re working) and fitting both the motivation for and the action of writing into all that.

So let’s try a little thought exercise.