The Chaos Theory?

It's chaos round our house, absolute chaos. The Steves are meant to be moving on in ten days time, so that we can move back in, but I cannot believe that this is even faintly possible.

OK, so the windows have glass in them, the plastering in my house-shaped shed has been finished, and the roof doesn't leak, but there's no electricity, no kitchen, and the boiler is in several pieces on the floor.

I keep telling myself that although the chaos may perpetuate itself for a few more days, it will resolve.  I say the same thing to myself when I am writing.  There is a distinctly uphill phase, exhausting because you are churning so much out, a feverish phase, when there is so many ideas in your head that must be committed to paper and you can't see how you're going to get it all out in the way that you want.  It's a kind of incoherent creativity, a messy period when all the momentum that you've been trying to generate kicks in and threatens to flatten you.  Then the strange geography of writing reveals itself as you reach the summit of your story and you can see the component parts of it laid out before you. It's like the view from the top of the Malverns: whole counties full of English fields as far as the eye can see. You catch your breath and everything makes sense.

So I know that we will have cupboards and work surfaces and a floor, and I will have a room in which to write.  But at the moment I can't see for looking.