Even if you choke.
Made it to page 69 today. Comfortably in Act III territory. Hopefully, at this rate, I can finish this horrible, messy thing by the end of the week and come out in one piece. The writer's fatigue is starting to kick in. A conversation with a playwright friend recently touched on the topic of PTSD and shell-shock and how it used to be called "Soldier's Heart," these men returning from battle as husks of their former selves. The name "shell-shock" came, apparently, as a result of the new technology that allowed for shelling of enemy encampments. Writer's Heart sounds trite and mocking almost in comparison, but there has been so much writing this year, and some of it pointless or approaching pointlessness, just really the compulsion to put fingertips to keyboard, not in the hope of producing anything that might be worthy of other eyes but merely to cure an itch or check a box. It's meeting a goal, an arbitrary one, with none of my earlier drive to infuse these initial efforts with stellar quality. Maybe it's just that NaNoWriMo mindset carrying into December. Either way, I do feel as though I'm nearing that state where I've thrown my arm out.
I look forward to that brief period when I can focus on nothing but reading. That said, I am happy to have knocked out the projects I have this year and while the end-of-year retrospective will delve into more detail, I do feel that goals set out at the year's outset were reached. More or less.
I look forward to that brief period when I can focus on nothing but reading. That said, I am happy to have knocked out the projects I have this year and while the end-of-year retrospective will delve into more detail, I do feel that goals set out at the year's outset were reached. More or less.