Fists of Steel: Write Club Edition

Tonight there was write club, which is usually good news for the wordcount. I managed to bang out the first six hundred words of the next Flotsam story (faster than expected), but fell a couple of hundred words short of my goal to finally crack 5,000 words on the great-lovecraftian-ghoul-swashbuckley-wahoo! novel draft. I also tinkered with the Black Candy draft for the first time since starting the gauntlet, working out how it’s going to fit into the daily routine. And because I cannot help myself, I even added a hundred or so words to a short story that I’m resolutely not-writing and will continue not-writing until it magically becomes written.

I absconded from proceedings slightly early because day-job demands rising early and I now turn into a miserable bastard if I’m not in bed by 11 o’clock.

I was already a miserable grump this evening because I got the news that the owners of my flat are planning sell in the near future, and the real estate agents are bringing around potential buyers over the next couple of weeks. This largely means that I need to stay on top of the cleaning (not something I’d planned to do during the gauntlet), start fretting about the finances in case I need to move, and do further fretting about what this may mean if I don’t have to move but the new owners actually plan on listening to the estate agents when they advertise the block as a “renovator’s delight” and actually attempt to renovate. Or, if they’re sensible, knock the entire block down and build something worthwhile on the site.

I mean, my flat is basically a dump, but it’s a dump that’s close to work and relatively cheap for a two-bedroom place in its location (it’d cost me an extra fifty bucks a week to move to any of the one-bedroom places nearby). Plus I’ve been here for three or four years now, which is just long enough for me to settle in and finally get everything unpacked. The only upside to the whole thing is that they appear to be selling the flats as a block, rather than one-by-one as was originally reported, which may well mean investors are more likely to pick the place up than people who want to move in.

And lo, with that, the clock strikes ten to eleven and I must away to slumber.