Two thousand words on STB this afternoon.  What part of "take a break and relax" does my brain not understand?

It's very compulsive, this urge to get it down, probably stronger because I'm resisting it.  And it's seducing my inner editor, because it's new scenes, but they fit into bits of the old draft, pouring over it like some sort of molten thing that seeps into holes and eats away at anything that needed to go.  Vivid, too.

I assume this is because I was gleefully ready to leap back into Sam and Mick and their Kylie-happy love affair and penchant for kinky phone sex.  Will must have been tired of waiting and decided to hijack me before I could wade back in.  Well, all I have to say to him is that I have very high attachment to Christmas cookie making, tree-decorating, and lots of silly, sentimental Christmas things with my daughter and husband.  And he can keep his substance abuse to himself.  (He has, apparently, developed a Dunhill habit while I wasn't looking.  OH, WONDER WHERE THAT'S FROM.)

Of course, John has been redecorating, too, while I've been away.  And he has my attention, too.

I can't believe I can't even go twenty-four fricking hours.  I swear to God, I was trying!  I ate the chocolate and everything!  And I'm reading the books, and I'm knitting . . . .

But man alive, it's loud.  It's never been this loud.  

Huh.