Word Count and Confessions

Today I managed to wrack up 5,091 words on my current wip. I want to dance a jig even while reprimanding myself that I could have written more. I wonder what it is about ourselves that make our successes never enough? On one hand, it’s a good thing because it forces us to strive for more, to accomplish something new, and to be better than we are. But on the other hand, you can’t fully enjoy what’s been well done, like putting butt to chair, fingers to keys, and typing out 5,000+ words that are, for the most part and with any luck, useable. But I suppose that’s life. I don’t write for the rollercoaster of emotions I feel mid-manuscript: the confusion, anticipation, frustration, uncertainty, excitement, and, yes, love. I write for the ending, to be able to see the story that’d been so long in my head alive now on paper. I write to hold those pages and feel the swell of pride that here, at least, I succeeded. A manuscript is done. A story complete. At least for now.



For some reason today, I thought of that quote from the movie Stage Beauty: “Exile is a dreadful thing for someone who knows his rightful place.” Not that I’ve been exiled from anything, mind you. I’ve always been told that I’m lucky that I know exactly what I want to do in life, but I’d argue that’s only if I’m given the opportunity to do it. Of course, the only one in charge of the opportunities at this point is me. So maybe I best get crackin’ again, hm?



The favorite thing that I’ve written today?

Heavy velvet drapes were drawn against the sunlight, casting the antique furnishings and gilded decorations in shadows. The house stood cool and dark and silent, a cavernous space cluttered with a lifetime’s worth of corporeal memories, all gathering dust in the man-made twilight.

Of course, that could very well change in the next few hours. What I like and dislike about my writing is naturally subject to extremes. Remind me… Why do I do this again?