I’ve been experiencing a severe backlash against the amount of hours I’ve been putting in at the computer this past month, which is probably one of the reasons why the most energetic thing I can do is lie on the chesterfield with cats.
This afternoon, I decided to make myself work on the Great Canadian Novel. In a mood like this, writing for myself rather than for someone else means I’m operating under guilt as opposed to an irrational sense of resentment.
I not only reached my daily quota of 2,000 words in only one hour, I surpassed it by 600 words. Then I edited for a while, and cut and pasted all my various chapters into one file, as I had done with my NaNo novel.
To my astonishment, once I’d standardised body text size, I discovered that I had 127 pages and 50, 557 words.
50K is a magic number now. To know that I surpassed it – even over a period of months – means something special. I am quite chuffed. Not only that, I feel like I’m getting somewhere. After a month-long block, I’ve given my protagonist a new direction and new resolve, not to mention producing half a chapter.
Maybe there’s hope for me as an author yet.