My mind is kind of broken after seven. I just want to watch Jamie Oliver cook noodles or read Twilight. I don't even speak much in the evening, we sit in comfortable silence. After being moaned/chattered/demanded/screeched/ laughed at all day by three small peeps I run out of words.
However, I have ground out 2000 words this evening, My novel is taking a shape, a voice. Not the one I imagined, it seems to have a life of its own. Maybe an exhausted voice.
My writing buddy, Fuller, is way ahead of me. As usual I am both proud and jealous. Excellent motivation.