54,019 Words

Saturday morning:
When I write for a long time and then am called upon to return, suddenly, to the real world by a crying child or ringing telephone, I experience an unpleasant inverse vertigo. As I descend into the rest of the house I feel dizzy. I have difficulty knowing that it is real. I am disconnected and everything is smaller and slightly out of focus. It takes me a few minutes to acclimatise. To others it probably looks like I have just woken up: not writing but napping.
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Later:
I'm in a love/hate phase with the book at the moment. When I'm sitting working on it, the time flies by and yet I find it hard to make myself sit down in the first place. It's like putting off doing your homework. First I trim my nails, then I notice how dusty the bedroom is beginning to look in the daylight, so I get a cloth... and so on. I feel resentful towards the book itself; I feel like it should be less laborious to get the story out of my head and on to the page.
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PM:
As I go, I'm making two lists on pieces of scrap paper beside the computer: words I think I've probably over-used and need to check, and words I like and would like to use if possible (portent, lacerate, denigrate, scowl).
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A poem:

Looking Forward

Crisp, bright October Sunday
Alone in my garden -
I breathe in deeply.

Each pale, waxy bulb
Bedded in cool receptive earth.
I mulch in silence.

Soft warm wool
Envelops my own skin -
I am in heaven.