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No, I’m not going to be the dick in the coffee shop pecking earnestly away at the laptop. I did, however, get some writing done in the privacy of our cabin at Camping Tucan in Lloret de mar, between sitting by the pool and drinking beer. I was pretty sunburned after Day One on the beach (stupid me, underestimating the fierceness of the sun) and consequently couldn’t sleep very well.
I had been writing Pernkopf’s Atlas for about a year at this point. Writing seriously, that is. Parts of the story had been in my head for much longer. Other parts simply would not resolve themselves into story form. I knew where the narrative needed to go. I was able to write some parts out of sequence. And then, suddenly, anti-climactically, I reached the end.
Now time for a paper edit with a good old-fashioned red pen. I know I should engage somebody else to do it, for all sorts of reasons, but I’m too mean.
