I started a new book today.
Okay, that was a blatant lie. I actually started it yesterday...Monday...the middle of last week...but if I actually tell the truth, then I have to face how little progress I've made over the past seven days. (You would think that it would require a kind of controlled schizophrenia to lie to one's self so effectively, but no! I get a clean bill of mental health in spite of the vast number of people who would like to argue otherwise.) I've managed less than four thousand words in a week. That's something like a thirty-six minute mile; in other words, not good.
A lot of indie writers are playing for the brass ring of being able to do this gig as a full-time thing. I like to think that I'm self-aware enough to realize that this would be a terrible path for me. I'm fundamentally lazy, and there's a reason that I don't get much done during the weekends. When I'm doing my day job, I write during my two fifteen-minute breaks and during my lunch hour, and with a good outline I can get something like 3000 words done. I'm really an eight year-old at heart, and I need my structure in order to get things done. For some reason, though, it is kicking my ass this time around to switch gears from the editing-brain to the drafting-brain.
Something needs to be done here. It might involve stickers.
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