(no subject)
This is what I really love about NaNoWriMo: Things Get Done. I make the phone calls. I pay the bills. I talk to the clients. I get the work. I do the work. I go to the gym. I do laundry. I vote.
Or--to take tonight, for example--I finish and hang the painting in the dining room, I clean up the painting mess, I venture out into a black thunderstorm to run errands, I finally deposit the checks, I finally get a fax/scanner for the office, I finally hang the other piece of art, I get the stuffing for the pretty pretty flower pillows, I make the pillows, I put them on the couch, I clean up the sewing mess. Because inside my head is a voice saying "Can't dawdle! Can't dawdle! THERE'S NO TIME!"
Now, it's true none of these tasks is novel-writing, in the strictest sense. But I have removed a whole lot of obstacles to novel-writing. And I love the way being several thousand words behind restores everything else to its proper proportion: the fact that even though I might be seriously sick and feverish, and have missed three days of work with a full-body rash, by hell I am typing.
Or--to take tonight, for example--I finish and hang the painting in the dining room, I clean up the painting mess, I venture out into a black thunderstorm to run errands, I finally deposit the checks, I finally get a fax/scanner for the office, I finally hang the other piece of art, I get the stuffing for the pretty pretty flower pillows, I make the pillows, I put them on the couch, I clean up the sewing mess. Because inside my head is a voice saying "Can't dawdle! Can't dawdle! THERE'S NO TIME!"
Now, it's true none of these tasks is novel-writing, in the strictest sense. But I have removed a whole lot of obstacles to novel-writing. And I love the way being several thousand words behind restores everything else to its proper proportion: the fact that even though I might be seriously sick and feverish, and have missed three days of work with a full-body rash, by hell I am typing.