It's pointless to want something as luxurious as time. I sneak in the writing. I think my manuscript could be fixed in a long weekend. Three days and four hours? My husband says I can estimate the time it takes to build his drawings with scary accuracy.
However, my 76 hours would mean no showering, very little sleep, shots of espresso, creaky joints and sporadic fits of shouting. I won't get the chance. I have to operate in sprints. Fifteen mintues here; a half hour there. I've filled a couple of spiral notebooks; they are more mobile, less conspicuous than a battery-hungry laptop.
When I open the screen, the groans within the household are nearly as deflating as knowing I'll never get that 76 hours.
If I write twice a day for 15 minutes each session, my revisions will be done: July 30. Insert fit of shouting.