In an ideal world, I’d be pushing out about 10,000 words a week.
In March, I wrote a whole total of 9,739 words for the whole month. That’s better than February, but it still feels like it’s not enough. It’s still better than the past few months, but it’s not enough.
Something I’ve had to work through in therapy is my ability to set realistic goals, which is something I do not do. I set ridiculously ambitious goals, fail on my face all the time, and then keep adding them to my list until I eventually get them done six months later.
I’m mostly guilty of this in my writing. I always have been, but now in the pandemic, I’m even worse. My biggest saving grace to look forward to in the next few weeks is that my schedule will change again. I’ll be off Tuesday and Wednesdays, two days where everyone else in my life will still be at work. If I can’t take advantage of the time I have now, I never will be.
If there is anything I have going for me, it’s apparently my unwavering optimism that this book will eventually get done.
Just not today.