I've finally scoured Chapter Nine of the still yet untitled novel to perfection. 70,682 words so far. Every time I do a word count, I think of the old Monty Python line: "I don't want you to get the impression it's just a question of the number of words... um... I mean, getting them in the right order is just as important."
I always blame work for cramping my output, but I've gone through a lot of personal crap in the past few months as well, especially losing an old friend. This chapter also required a lot of rewrites because as it's the penultimate chapter of the second act (to use a theatrical term) a few characters are about to do some things that are contrary to their established nature. I needed to make sure the seeds were well laid to make the changes believable.
Holy Zarquon's Singing Fish, how did books ever get written before word processing?