I took two weeks off, well, almost two weeks. I wrote two brand new scenes on different days. I spent a day organizing and printing a draft that only Bacon has read. I spent the better part of another putting the pages into manageable packets, making notes, and dividing the number of words possible by the number of writing days available between now and my next self-imposed deadline in February.
I got up early this morning. The number, 1383, is marked neatly in pink on today’s calender. 1383 is the number of words I set as a daily goal. It isn’t a big number. I can write that much every day. So, why didn’t I?
I stared at the pages. I changed the sheets on the bed. I bought a digital converter box. (The TV Fairy isn’t going to drop a big screen down my chimney this year.)
So, I’m here looking for a push. I’m committing myself, and since you’ve read this far, I can’t back out. I’ll do what I have to do.
The truth is I’m cranky when I’m not writing. Many friends and family members have suggested I take time off. None of them live with me. My bad mood says it’s time to get back to work. I have a schedule, a list, a routine, a goal, and now, a little pressure.