I just crunched numbers on what it would take me to write (and rewrite) a book in two months, which is still twice as long as some people I know can do…
It scares me. I think it would take me three hours a day, consistently, for 40 work days to do it.
But, goddamnit…I could do it. I could do it.
Still thinking about that post I saw yesterday, and it just hammered home once again the singular thing I need to do to go where I want to go: finish books. That’s it. It’s that simple. I need to finish books. And that’s something I can do. It’s just like my exercising: I just have to do it. And I can do it.
Also realizing it’s not just a switch I can flip. I’ll have to build up to it.
It’s fifteen pages a day.
That would take me fifteen weeks to build up to, I think. Nothing. It feels like a long time, but it’s not. Taking seven months to build up to 154 pushups sounds like a long time. It hasn’t been. It’s been a blink of an eye.
Gonna sleep on all this.
I’m scared and intimidated by all of this thinking. It’s not the kind of thinking that has a place in my creative process. I’ve learned that. The creative side of me is all about the love of the task itself, not of the result. But, I’ve been able to balance the two before. I can do it again. And that’s an exciting thought. Less scary.
Ramping up the pages really worked for me a few weeks ago. Worked really, really well. I can use that shit.
Gonna think more on this. Night 🙂
A’s won.