218 pages. 66,000 words, give or take a few. A book. About that year, that really bad year, when Rory was new and we both thought our lives had caroomed (no, really, spell-check, caroomed, I don’t know what you mean by caromed but it isn’t what I mean, not at all) to a very bad place, but only I get to write a book about it. Yet.
I just finished the draft. It’s a first draft. With a lot of sucky bits, and by that I don’t mean the bits wherein life sucked, but rather, the lousy transition and incomplete characterizations and whatnot. I drafted it. I revised it. And then I drafted the ending. And now it is drafted. All of it.
Which means now I can go to bed.