Attack of the Sequel

So. It's like this.

I have something like 70 writing hours left before my self-imposed deadline of the end of the month in which to finish the Frenchman's story. That's about 1.1 pages an hour. Every moment counts. I need to finish this story, and finish it to my own goals.

The geraniums and bacopa that should have gone into the hanging baskets a month ago are still growing leggy and limp on my windowsill. If a dinner takes longer than twenty minutes to cook, I ain't cookin' it. TV is out. Reading is minimal. Husband is long-suffering. Pippi thinks longingly of the days when Mummy brushed her fluffy coat once a week... Husband thinks longingly of the days when Wifey brushed-- *cough*. Never mind.

This being the case, can someone explain to me why I wrote the first two pages of a new story today? Hmmm?

Okay, so it's the story of one of the secondaries in the Frenchman's story - not so bad. It's set locally so I haven't got Realistic Setting Angst to deal with. It has (so far) a light an uncomplicated plot - the Holy Grail! But... it's not the book I'm supposed to be working on! Argh!

Actually, it's not so bad. It's a good sign. When I hit that last third of a book, the next idea usually elbows its way into the queue and starts tapping me on the shoulder. It means I'm about to accelerate into that mad rush of completion.

Bring it on.