Both today and yesterday consisted of writing dates, so the wordcounts look amazing. But remember it means I sat in a cafe for a minimum of 3 hours to get these wordcounts. It was terrible. I had to eat crepes and drink iced hot chocolate or milk tea. Really. You should hear my
Also, every line I love in this draft is cruel. The beautiful thing about this as opposed to Requiem's Tale of Woe and Jokes is that I don't feel like the story is stabbing me in the face when I try to write it. The cruelty isn't personal anymore, but the emotions are just as honest.
Probably because I shouldn't be writing this book for
Metrics, oh my metrics
Words: Approximately 1200
Total: 5281 (ish)
The doubt: I wrote these words by hand, expected them to be awful and wasn't sure that I'd actually get 500. What I learned is that when I can't go on Twitter or anything because I only have a notebook but the person I'm with is committed to staying until she gets her 500... well, I get words written. A hell of a lot of words.
But I wrote this anyway: I know it doesn't work because it hurts too deep, the kind of hurt only a still-beating heart can experience.
Words: 1772 or thereabouts
The doubt: It was the first day of writing on the iPad (I've had for more than a year.) I wasn't sure I liked it and I had to type up the pages and pages of longhand from yesterday. But the beauty of the iPad, even though it's a little awkward and doesn't have my nice formatting options and doesn't autosave, is again—I can't easily navigate between Twitter and the writing app.
But I wrote this anyway: The chiming of imprisoned dreams isn't a distinct sound; sometimes I think I hear it when people clink glasses in celebration.
The glamour: This draft is going to clear 8000 words in its first week. That is more than double the agreed upon goal. I am in full fuck you, everything, I'm just going to write mode and it's glorious. I haven't been this consistently happy in months. Those kinds of numbers say I could have a draft by the end of the year.
Harsh reality: Rarely does a story talk to me consistently for 8000 plot-advancing words a week during its zero draft. It's not a sustainable momentum, because I like having a life, too.
And fuck you, everything, I'm just going to write mode gets in the way of my 9-5. (It means I have no interest in reading books because I'm busy with my own.) I have two more ARCs to read for September and then all the October–December titles. About four of them don't have ARCs, so I can't read ahead which is going to mess with my momentum.
Oh noes, so many books to read when I just want to write. I'm grateful that these are my first world problems.