I wrote 665 words yesterday, that's two pages. It's gritty fantasy, and it's still raw and rough, and the beginning is too bleeding self-conscious for words, but I've been writing. (And not having a title drives me mad.)
This week is mostly wrapping up the old flat and removing the last bits and pieces (clothes, some books, crockery), then the Big Clean on the weekend (I think we'll just hire somebody to do it), then sorting through the stuff in the new house and throwing out what we can. That will have been three vettings then, that should give us some breathing space.
Resolved an unpleasant situation with an editor (ah, the little wrestling matches going on in the background that nobody can/will talk about because that's unprofessional and looks bad on both sides), so that project is back on track with, hopefully, no significant damage done and very little collateral damage (mainly the stress and waste of time that could have gone into creating).
Got in touch with an Amazon reviewer, sold a lot of stuff and now need to post it, and wracking my brain to write the best possible "no, thank you, I won't be attending the second interview at Awesome Place because I already signed the contract." It's OK, it's a good decision. In addition, I don't have the headspace to prepare for getting a job I don't really prefer to the one I'll have in 3 weeks.
Starting to plan the holiday in Turkey - what books to bring, which manuscript to edit. I'll only fit one in, I want to travel light, but I will be spending most time in the holiday apartment if the weather's hot (Turkey in JUNE, come on). Just can't cope with big changes in temperature. But I'm also the worst possible sufferer of jetlag.
But I'm writing again. Whoot.