Saturday, August 11, 2012

Amazing what you can accomplish when you aren't on Twitter

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 wallet's cries of pain.

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 bullshit logical business reasons, so the indulgence isn't so much all-my-ennui-let-me-stab-it-in-your-face as much as it is "OMG THIS FACE-STABBING IS SO MUCH FUN." It could be, as I tweeted, that I've just become a terrible person; I hope I've become a not-terrible person who doesn't flinch when it comes to writing terrible things happening to fictional people.

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
Total: 7053
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.

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