That’s how many words you can do in a year if you commit to writing mere 500 a day. It’s ridiculous, to think that by writing no more than the wordcount equivalent of exactly one of those writing exercises I took so often when fired up, back when I had hopes and dreams and stuff, I could have at least three, I say three novels in a year.
The moment I realized I was wasting even more of my life by not doing it, I got back.
As I told my editor, who for some reason didn’t give up on me yet, self-hatred is for the very first time making me do something rather than stopping me from. So today I started my writing goal routine with 500 words in mind. Then I went and wrote three times more than that in a row and would have written more if I wasn’t too afraid of just churning out such bad text I’ll spend weeks editing instead of, well, days.
Surprisingly, it didn’t feel like a burden. Actually, after I hit 500 words, it was pure magic: once the goal for the day was done, anything I did was on me. I could write or not, watch a movie or read something, just chat… my job was done. So I kept writing for myself until I finished the scene. And then some more.
Writing never felt this good to me. I have a problem with words, in the sense that I love them so much it’s hard to have a functional relationship: using them just doesn’t feel right. There are times when they run from me as if playing tag, and chasing them is just too hard on my brain who thinks of concepts only. In other occasions, the little fiends just throw themselves at me with a desire that would be hard to fend off even if I wanted to: when words want to be written down they tend to be absolutely irresistible, to the point where they will find a way into your prose and paint it so purple it might fade into slipshod, overweening hipster poetry. Happened more than once during articles that were, contrary to what my hypothesis implied, accepted although never properly paid for, cunning fellas that News Site owners can be.
So writing for today is done and I backspaced more than a half of what this post was supposed to be because if I’m going to shove my depression down anyone’s throat let it be through fiction they wouldn’t pay for even if it was actually published.
At least 500 more tomorrow.