100 Words
Originally posted @ http://scruffy-duck.net
I’ve been slack on my writing.
All right, as a writer I am a slacker. I do most of my writing in November (NaNoWriMo anyone?), and the rest of the time I’m thinking about writing, and saying to myself I need to get writing.
I know I have a whole host of other problems and difficulties in my life to deal with, that offer me a great excuse not to be writing, but I would rather be writing, rather put my energy into writing instead of the morning panic attacks, inability to look after myself and my flat properly. Instead of the depression, mood swings and passing obsessions.
So, I decided that I should be writing, instead of thinking about it (or in some cases, writing about writing), and while I write poetry regularly, I want to put a dent in my other work. Like my novels. That’s novels, plural. I’ve started four, finished, none. I completed NaNoWriMo one year, got about half way through a sci-fi novel, but that was over a year ago, well over a year ago, and since then, I’ve added all of 3,000 extra words to it. I want to finish it!
So, starting with a short story I started for a college class last year some time, I am building up my daily writing by writing at least 100 words a day for a little while. And not kicking myself if I can’t or don’t do it. And if I write more then all the better. I’ve already written my 100 words for today (120 actually), and yesterday I wrote 222 words. I was already half way through this story, so I can finish it soon, which will make me happy, and then move onto another project.
Like actually finishing a bloody novel.
On a better note, I am currently reading, my concentration seems to have improved with the stability of my mood and in the past two weeks I’ve written two and a half books. I read a book a year. Kathy Reichs. It’s a sad state of affairs really, I love reading, love books, and I used to read a book every couple of days when I was a teenager. Before everything went wrong upstairs.
And now, a few more words maybe, then more of the book. Then sleep. Which usually eludes me, but then, if it didn’t I wouldn’t be able to say it eluded me, which is both cool and melodramatic.
I’ve been slack on my writing.
All right, as a writer I am a slacker. I do most of my writing in November (NaNoWriMo anyone?), and the rest of the time I’m thinking about writing, and saying to myself I need to get writing.
I know I have a whole host of other problems and difficulties in my life to deal with, that offer me a great excuse not to be writing, but I would rather be writing, rather put my energy into writing instead of the morning panic attacks, inability to look after myself and my flat properly. Instead of the depression, mood swings and passing obsessions.
So, I decided that I should be writing, instead of thinking about it (or in some cases, writing about writing), and while I write poetry regularly, I want to put a dent in my other work. Like my novels. That’s novels, plural. I’ve started four, finished, none. I completed NaNoWriMo one year, got about half way through a sci-fi novel, but that was over a year ago, well over a year ago, and since then, I’ve added all of 3,000 extra words to it. I want to finish it!
So, starting with a short story I started for a college class last year some time, I am building up my daily writing by writing at least 100 words a day for a little while. And not kicking myself if I can’t or don’t do it. And if I write more then all the better. I’ve already written my 100 words for today (120 actually), and yesterday I wrote 222 words. I was already half way through this story, so I can finish it soon, which will make me happy, and then move onto another project.
Like actually finishing a bloody novel.
On a better note, I am currently reading, my concentration seems to have improved with the stability of my mood and in the past two weeks I’ve written two and a half books. I read a book a year. Kathy Reichs. It’s a sad state of affairs really, I love reading, love books, and I used to read a book every couple of days when I was a teenager. Before everything went wrong upstairs.
And now, a few more words maybe, then more of the book. Then sleep. Which usually eludes me, but then, if it didn’t I wouldn’t be able to say it eluded me, which is both cool and melodramatic.