(no subject)
Somewhere, not too long ago, I read about a writer who wrote a short story a week, every week for three years (bar, I think, two weeks that he missed). I like the idea of this. Every year that goes by (practically every month, actually), I tell myself I'm going to reach some writing goal, and market a certain amount, and cross things off my project list, and feel accomplished.
Tragically, I seem to fail, more often than not.
I'm not sure what the difference is. NaNo isn't a problem; I love the rush of Novembers. Even arbitrarily setting myself a year for Unboxed wasn't really all that difficult; I was determined to do it, and I did it. And, granted, I did get the final edit of Hangman done before November, like I'd intended to. But then, I'd also intended to do it six months before that, and the year before that, so what's that say about me, in the end?
I have four novels that are near completion: The Tragedienne, The Fray, the Quixote one, and Rhiannon, which was languished three chapters from the end for, what, six years now? I tell myself I'm determined to finish them, give myself a schedule, and then spend two days reading sporking literary criticism and not writing a thing. I say, okay, I've got at least fifteen short stories in need of editing, and then I can send them out. Have I edited? Have I sent them out? Do I suck? No, no, and yes, in that order.
I feel inclined to open this up to people. Give me a challenge. Force me to work. I'm quite self-disciplined when I decide to be. It's the deciding part that seems to be the problem. So I may just start leaping on random passers-by on the street and begging orders. Brother, can you spare a writing challenge? It may work. It may not. Either way, it's a whole new year ahead of us. Let's see what happens.
Tragically, I seem to fail, more often than not.
I'm not sure what the difference is. NaNo isn't a problem; I love the rush of Novembers. Even arbitrarily setting myself a year for Unboxed wasn't really all that difficult; I was determined to do it, and I did it. And, granted, I did get the final edit of Hangman done before November, like I'd intended to. But then, I'd also intended to do it six months before that, and the year before that, so what's that say about me, in the end?
I have four novels that are near completion: The Tragedienne, The Fray, the Quixote one, and Rhiannon, which was languished three chapters from the end for, what, six years now? I tell myself I'm determined to finish them, give myself a schedule, and then spend two days reading sporking literary criticism and not writing a thing. I say, okay, I've got at least fifteen short stories in need of editing, and then I can send them out. Have I edited? Have I sent them out? Do I suck? No, no, and yes, in that order.
I feel inclined to open this up to people. Give me a challenge. Force me to work. I'm quite self-disciplined when I decide to be. It's the deciding part that seems to be the problem. So I may just start leaping on random passers-by on the street and begging orders. Brother, can you spare a writing challenge? It may work. It may not. Either way, it's a whole new year ahead of us. Let's see what happens.