Bloody hell. It was like pulling teeth tonight. I got the bare minimum done, just over 1,666 words, and it took about three and a half hours.
Tomorrow, I think I might walk to work and back, whilst trying to think of some more plot. It's far, far easier for me to get a scene written than it is to think of what that scene's going to be in the first place.
Anyway.
Favourite bit of the day:
“Scottish? That’s a long way from Russian.”
“Not if you’re Sean Connery,” observed Nez.
I gave him a look. “Anyway. Domingo, this Scottish guy, what’s his name?”
“Tinkerbell.”
I gave him a look, too. I had enough to go around.
I was more jumpy than usual for two reasons: one, the brown paper bag in my hand, which held just under fifty thousand pounds in used notes, and two, a dose of the the most godawful flu. Streaming nose, holllowed-out head, and a terrible pain behind the eyes. Right now I was trying to juggle the money, my gun, and a wad of tissues, and the headache wasn't helping. So far that morning, I'd already tried to blow my nose on the money, check the safety on the Kleenex, and count the gun. It was 4am. I was not having a good day.
From that start, I couldn't really go anywhere else but noir :)
Unfortunately, it's getting quite rambling now, and I've got key pieces of timing wrong, and my plot is falling apart because it started out as a love story and then my main character changed sexuality and turned out to be in a stable relationship which she's now trying to hold together (which is fine for her motivation, but doesn't do much for the other lead, who now is far less likely to walk into the sunset with her at the end.)
But apparently, this is the kind of thing that happens, and I should just keep on making my wordcount every day, and hope for the best.