Saturday: 5k, craft
Sunday: 5k, craft
40k each week
Or this schedule
Saturday: Write until tired
Sunday: Mass and write a little
Monday: Write until tired
Tuesday: Write until tired
Wednesday: More of the same
Thursday: More of the same
Friday: Write a little and see where you are at. If it is fininshing, well then, good job. Finishing would be approaching 80k. If this becomes the case I must be manic, solitary, and unable to think.
What is the goal for all of this? The William Faulkner-William Wisdom Novel Competition closes the second week of April. Big deal?
I concur. I am floating around 10-15k on the word count. My scenes are piecemeal. If I can bring all of this together I should be able to submit before the end of the month. If I can finish in two weeks. Didn’t Kerouac crank out On the Road in three weeks? At a little over 100k words it garnered praise. I wonder if he even edited it?
I don’t imbibe excessively. I don’t drop mescaline or peyote for inspiration. I shower regularly and keep my debauchery confined to The Walking Dead on Sunday night and the History Channel sparingly. Using this math, and if I keep the television off, I should have this done and done lickety-split.
What are your goals?
I think the biggest thing is just getting it done. I did this post, at over 400 words in under ten minutes.
I suppose it comes down to the Nike slogan (Just do it). Oddly enough, does anybody know the history behind that?
The daunting part is the mind. Other things pop into it and beg for attention.
“Oooh! Look at this!” and “Hey, here’s an idea for something else.”
Isn’t that what notebooks and Evernote are for?
Other projects are discussed around here. Here being the house in the cul-de-sac. My son wants to do some sort of multimedia project. My wife has a great idea for a Georgia history book (iBook or Kindle). See what I mean? It’s constant. Maybe that is why I like it, and I am beginning to feel overwhelmed. I read how other writers manifest their work by scheduling it and just plodding along, day in day out. That seems very uninspired. But now I am seeing that is how things are. And everybody goes about believing writers and artists live these lives filled with something magical. J.D. Salinger ate thawed peas for dinner. And they weren’t magical. They were Birds Eye frozen peas! I had three chili dogs from Fred’s. I should be farting rainbows and elves.
You are welcome.