It's been kind of a hard week around here on personal and professional fronts. Yesterday was a doozy for reasons I don't want to get into here, but let's just say I needed a giant-sized margarita at dinner last night.
It's been really important to me not to let go of my dream of completing this month-long challenge and to write something daily, though, so every night I've dragged myself to my desk to put in a few hundred words. Except for one brief five-minute period where Husband said it was fun to listen to the rapid clatter of the keyboard, it's mostly been peck-peck-peck. And I ended the week a few hundred words short of where I need to be. It's hard to want to write well, make lovely understated copy, and churn
out schlock, but I'm doing it and am managing to feel darn proud.
This morning, Husband took child Blossom grocery shopping and deposited child Sprout at a friend's house. I sat down to an unfinished scene and in the quiet (and without the sleepiness of my usual 10 p.m. date with my desk), I found the words flowing again and even got a couple of ideas to move the plot along a little further in a section that was so hazy it was starting to feel like it didn't belong in this plot--even though it was the spark for my original idea. It made me realize that, even on these hard nights where I planned to just sit down for 50 words so I could keep my promise to myself to write daily, I usually ended up with at least 500. And with a weekend that promises at least a few more 30-minute bites for working, I expect by Monday, I'll be groovin' along again--with the added bonus of having learned that the slog works, if we just keep at it.
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