1,594 words written this week.
Those words have been pulled out of me, letter by letter. I have to open Scrivener and start reading the previous days’ work as soon as I sit down to breakfast. If I wait till after I’ve finished, and let myself sink into Twitter or reading blog posts or magazines, I never get started.
Even once I’ve started, I keep checking my word count. “Am I done yet? No? How about now? Now? This time?”
I both can’t wait to be done with this rewrite, so I can move onto to the next project, and I don’t want to do the work necessary to finish it. It’s grinding, boring work, and — because I know even this draft is going to be imperfect — terrifying at the same time.
Why am I doing this, again?
Oh, yeah: because this story can’t be told without me. If I don’t write it, no one will know about Marcus, or Julia, or Franklin. No one will feel their pain, their fear, as I have. No one will rejoice at their triumphs.
I owe it to them to finish. So that’s what I’ll do.