I'm sure I used to be able to do more than one thing at a time. Today I couldn't even answer the phone.
I want to have my portfolio ready to go for binding by Monday, Tuesday at the very latest, so that if they fuck it up I have time to get it put right. I wasn't happy with the way my last dissertation was bound but by the time I had it in my hands all I could do was rush it over to the university to meet the deadline.
I need ten thousand perfectly placed words for the prose section and have, so far, positioned six thousand eight hundred and ninety five as well as I can. I still have one short story, the first chapter of a novel and the first chapter of a non-fiction thing to work on. The word count I can manage, it's the perfect bit I struggle with. As for the poems I have seven out of the required ten done to the best of my current ability. So I need another three.
I feel like I'm working in a word factory, on night shift. My hours have become entirely nocturnal: I work till about 5am and don't rise till about 3pm, it takes me until about 8am to get to sleep. Still, my table now looks like this:
Filled with completed work. When I look at it I feel like I've at least done something. I still don't know what order to put it in though, but am told that it will become obvious. I also need to get the artwork for the cover done. I want a head rendered in labels, some of them peeling away to reveal raw flesh, maybe even a little bone. But, damn it, I'm no visual artist so lord knows what I'll end up with.
Last night, before I went to bed I put all my clothes in the washing machine and set the timer so they'd be ready to hang out when I woke. This afternoon as I hung them I looked into the basket and saw my iPod shuffle still attached to my tracksuit top.