After spending almost an entire week working on the cover for a novel I haven't even written, I decided to actually write the novel upon which I'd wasted so much time faffing about with the cover.
Happily this has been my best marathon for years. I've managed to do a second fifty pages in the past four days after the first took almost two months. I even welcomed a new character I hadn't even thought of until she bustled her way onto my pages. I'm not sure just how much she'll bugger up the works, or even perhaps help to keep my headstrong character from trashing the only part of London he and the winged reptiles haven't already succeeded in destroying.
I love it when that happens and finally acknowledge that I'm a panster forever. I've tried a dozen times to write the way apparently normal authors do, which is to say plan my novels. Or at the very least envision a beginning, a middle and an end, preferably in the correct order, and stick to it. But every time I do that I either end up becoming hopelessly lost or lose interest. So I'm sticking with the way I love. And if it doesn't work, then I'll just begin a new novel and come back to it later. I have already have four that fell by the wayside which I will finish before I die.