From May 6 till December 31, I have 240 days to finish writing my novel. Yesterday I didn't write anything. I woke up in the morning in a flooded house - the sink tap had been left open, and there was some blockage in the drain, and the water gushed out, innundating two rooms. I had to clear it all.
I was in office by afternoon, and I had to write two small opinion pieces for the coming issue. In between two colleagues coaxed me into joining them for lunch at a restaurant in Defence Colony.
I returned to office and could not write. But a day before, I had a very engaging conversation with my friend Neelesh Misra, and he suggested some changes in the plot, which made sense to me. The thing I like about Neelesh is that he makes me see clearly through the haze of foolish, sentimental day-dreaming (which, incidentally, he himself does all the time).
In the evening I worked out at my gym, and sweated so much that I had to immediately drink two bottles of Gatorade. On my way home, I bought some chicken, and then spent the entire evening marinating it in curd, and then cooking it in a paste of home-made tomato, onion and garlic. Then I poured myself a drink, sat in my room, with a notebook open in my lap.
Now I have only 239 days left. Actually 238, since today is half over, and I have only written 60 words at around 10 a.m.