Sleeping is giving in, no matter what the time is.
Wise words from The Arcade Fire – unwitting prophets of the Essay Doom that hath befallen me.
I now have four thousand and one words, which means nine hundred and ninety nine words to go. (It's nice to know I still have elementary maths skills, if nothing else.) I will not give in, even though my bed looks tempting and cosy and is all snuggled up against the radiator waiting for me. It's wearing its special purple blanket and everything, and is just flaunting its cosiness a little too much, if you ask me. There's just no need to ever be quite so brazen with cushions. Not that I'll tell it that. After all, it wants the attention.
No, I will turn from it until I have written those nine hundred and ninety nine words. Nine hundred and ninety nine words that will be fantastic, and marvellous, and profound. Or alternatively, they'll just make sense in the cold light of Sunday, which would be nice.
If anyone wants to write nine hundred and ninety nine words on Jane Austen, Charlotte Smith, eighteenth century feminism and inheritance as a moral reward in return for homebaked goods, a large gin and tonic or my undying love and devotion you know how to find me. Just follow the scent of strong black coffee through the streets of Leamington until you pitch up on my doorstep. You can't miss it.