I think I’ve learned something: I need a day off each week. I planned to write all the way through the weekend today, and get another ten pages down—seemingly easier than it was going to be yesterday, given I didn’t have anything planned outside of the house today—but that went out the window pretty much as soon as I decided to walk the dogs first when I got up, rather than get a start on the writing for the day. That’s another thing I’ve learned: when the spoons are low and the fatigue is high, if I really do want to write that day, I must get up on time and write first. Half the daily pages, at least, need to be written before breakfast. Otherwise, it’s just not going to happen.
I’m glad I took the day off. I needed it. I slept. I cleaned and organized. I made sure I was set up for the week to come. I vegg’d out a bit, or “rotted” as the kids say. I took care of the pups and the kitties. It was a glorious day.
Not quite home-stretch territory for the book, but it will be by this time next week. That’s pretty exciting. Two or three more weeks of writing, that’s it. This book will be done. And just in time, I hope, to crank out the next one before the years ends.
Here’s the thing: even if it drags into January or something like that next year, I’m fine with it. The vast majority of the work will still have been done in this year. I’m going to count it as a win, and it’ll guarantee that next year I’ll write two books in a year for sure. But here’s the thing: I really want to get it done. This year. And even more next year.
Night night.