I've written the first third of a novel. It's a satisfying milestone, although nothing compared to the much-anticipated pleasure of reaching the halfway point, the rising excitement of watering the horse at that fabled three-quarters way station and, of course, the delirious bliss of cracking open the champagne after finally laying down those immortal words: THE END.
But I get ahead of myself. Ten chapters down. Twenty to go. The hill remains steep, and the path, Zen-like, remains the only reason for my existence.
On another note, I finally got round to watching Cloverfield last night. Despite its slow start - and a level of motion sickness I've only ever experienced in a theme park - I enjoyed it a whole heap. Clever concept, neatly played out, amazing 'you're really there' FX, lots of shocks and, surprisingly, some rather moving moments. And is that a weird-looking beastie or what?