I’v been writing about four thousand words a day. I think that’s a lot. Whenever I tell S how much I wrote, he is always amazed. I am too, a little.
I don’t know if I will be able to keep up that pace. Last year, I started out with a pretty high wordcount, and then stumbled quite frequently. I take the low days as part of the process. They are going to happen. There will be days when nothing comes or when life keeps you from sitting down. That’s why I wanted to start out with more words than I needed as a cushion. I still finished with a pretty high wordcount, but I don’t know what will happen this year.
I might be moving soon. I hate not knowing, but I’ve got that in the back of my head—another reason that I’m trying to get ahead of the game.
Whatever the result, I am not anxious about how many words I write. I am not going to stress about whether I reach 50k or double that, or whether I finish the story. More than anything, I am doing nano for myself, and for my books. They want to be written, and without the impetus of nano, I put them off and put them off and maybe wash the dishes instead—or maybe not, maybe I’m just watching tv, giving in to the exhaustion of raising two little guys.
So I will write, trying to beat my wordcount or trying to surpass it, or trying to scrape up enough words to match yesterday, because without that goal, I let it slide. And I don’t want to.
I might get depressed if I fall off the writing. If I stop or slow down. There’s no reason to, but I know it’s what happens when I fail to meet my perfectionist standards. I’m trying to be easy about it all, and not get too excited about having my nice fat wordcount, so maybe I won’t get too disappointed if I don’t keep it.
Gosh. None of it matters, really. All that matters is that I write. And I’m writing.