2456 words, and I woke up with the first few lines of the novel ringing in my head at 415 am, so I got up, wrote:
When the real world ended, not just mine, but the whole world, it was with a wail, no matter what T.S. Eliot, that poet & prick, might have said. The wailing? Ambulance sirens, to be precise.
and then pounded out 1648 words in the next hour and a half.
Another hour now, and I’ve got 1000 more words, and I actually think I know where I’m going with it.
Everyone loves a postapocalyptic dysfunctional family road trip, right? With real family at the end of the road?
*Sigh.* It’ll be the clunkiest metaphor ever to book, but maybe it won’t be awful.