This is me wearing my writey hat with my writey face on. Sarge says he can hear my brain gears turning when I look like this.
Not sure about hearing them, but I can damn sure feel them. I’ve been known to grind the clutch so bad it leaves a mark.
Brian is over on Friday. I’m right on track. Still no sign of burnout or writer’s block, though I figure I am probably 2/3 of the way through. To finish, my goal will be 1000 words a day for December, hoping to wrap it all up with 80,000 words by 1 January.
I have definitely learned that my personal motivation is in the keeping of a word count goal. That’s actually my motivation for everything. Numbers. I work out an exact number of minutes, which I have cut back to only 50 during November, one because I just don’t have the time, and two because I’m not eating enough to work out for 2 fucking hours. Wait, maybe I am. That would explain the 15 pounds I’ve packed on recently, after inadvertently losing a few. My body hates me, I am sure.
More numbers. During the day, everything I do has a specific time. I do certain things at 11:30, certain things must be done by 12:30, more things must be finished by 2:00. My money job pays me by the 65-character line. I brush my teeth exactly 40 strokes in each of 6 quadrants in my mouth, and 100 strokes on my front teeth and my tongue. Dude. I’m totally serious. And even after all of that, I still hate math.
I’m tossing around the idea of having two projects at once. Perhaps working on a short story in the morning and the novel in the evening. I have other goals besides the novel and ideas are beginning to swirl. Sarge would probably have a fit, though. He thinks I am wearing myself into an exhaustion coma. He’s probably right. It will all come crashing down on me at some point, I am sure. But until then, I’ll continue with my locomotive breath until my lungs collapse.