Total word count, hearthcraft book: 41,688
New words today: 1,491
I combined two chapters, moved a few pages around to other chapters to create better flow, talked about ethics and composting (not the ethics of composting, which is something entirely different). Is that all I did? It feels like I did nothing. I could have done so much more, but I just can’t focus or get into the damn thing or something. Gah. I should be happy I’m finding even fifteen hundred words’ worth of things to say these days.
I am currently struggling with the suspicion that this is all much too vague. It’s never as bad as I think it is, which ought to be reassuring.
I really, really wish I could somehow shift my productive time so that I’m not in the swing of things when the boy comes home.
Ah. I know this feeling. I have reached the ‘I will never get it, never, NEVER!’ portion of this book, and am figuratively bashing my forehead on the keyboard while moaning to myself about how awful it is, how it will never come together, how useless I am, how I must not care about it because I can’t rouse any passion about it these days, and why do I bother making more time to write (i.e. booking the boy in with the caregiver one more day each week) when it doesn’t happen?
(The answer: Because more time provides more opportunity for it to occur. Yes, it also creates more opportunity for self-loathing and despair, but that goes with the territory.)
Except it does happen, because although I don’t produce as much as I feel I ought to produce (curse you, unrealistic expectations of maintaining ridiculous output!), every day the book inches closer to being a full first draft. It’s just not inching along fast enough for the manager part of my brain. The rest of my mind is limping along asking piteously what the managing bit wants from it, because it’s doing all it can.
Also, I am tired of dealing with this ongoing damn pain. It can just go away. I’m almost afraid to think of how bad it would be by now without the medication.