I’ve kinda gotten off track with my writing this month, which resulted in me avoiding making a post, because then I’d have to admit it.
My three days of stress didn’t simply lift and float away, making writing a breeze. I felt a huge kind of relief for the first hour or so, and then I got a headache, as all the muscle tension of three days of stress finally started to come out, and I spent Friday in a bit of drugged haze.
So I didn’t write.
And that meant I was really behind, so I forced myself to write on Saturday, letting out more of the angst and stress by writing an angsty scene. But mostly I slept; I sleep a lot when I’m dealing with stress and anxiety, and so I did a lot of it on Saturday and again on Sunday. I contemplated quitting nano with what I had (changing my word goal to the current wordcount), because after all, most years I write nothing at all in April, so its all a win at this point. But that felt like failure, and I’m so tired of quitting.
So I after avoiding writing all day, I waited till an hour before I absolutely had to go to bed (or be wrecked for work the next day), and wrote.
It was hard. It was like plucking eyebrow hairs. It was like waiting in line at the bank during lunch hour. But I did it. It didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel like success. It was just something that had to be done. I went to bed and thought about reducing my word goal again, because hitting my goal seemed impossible right then. Would it really feel all that bad, shortening my wordcount?
But today is Monday. I’ve already managed a trickle of words on my lunch break. It still doesn’t feel good to write, but it does feel like I’m moving in the right direction. I still think about lowering my word goal. I hope I won’t; I’m want to believe I’m going to go big or go home. I want to write all 25,000 fucking words, even if I hate every moment of it.
Because I know that I’m giving myself more than a passing sense of achievement. I’m working on long-term goals (finishing a goddammed novel), and the achievement of actually completing something. Of being able to hold a finished (and that includes editing, may the gods forgive me) book* and saying ‘I wrote this fucker. It’s real, and no one can take it from me.’**
*Yes, it will be self-published at someplace like lulu or createspace, and it will be worth it, just to have a physical copy in my hands.
**Except for my mother, who might literally take it out of my hands.