As of today, I have written every single day for 100 days straight. That’s a pretty damn good chain. One I hope to keep growing for a long time.
Now the secret sauce, the whispered spell, the talisman that led to this chain is not a fancy new iPad, a special app, or a handwoven notebook made from recycled sunflower leaves. It’s not a lucky pen, a spiffy hourglass, or a lollipop that was licked by Neil Gaiman. Nope. It’s a Google Doc.
Yet this is no ordinary Google Doc. It’s the collective calculator of literary calculus, the almighty slayer of perfectionist psyches, the engine of writers’ hopes and dreams, The Magic Spreadsheet.
::Cue choir of cheer-drunk angels::
About a month ago, I shared this idea that I had for motivating myself to write more. And I have to say that it’s going pretty well so far.
It didn’t go so well initially. January was a kind of packed month in terms of folks visiting, cons, etc. But once I finally got going at a steady clip, I’ve found that it’s super-motivating to encourage myself to cross that 1,000 word threshold and earn another comic.
Many modern writers rely on cloud services such as Dropbox or Crashplan to protect their treasured prose against file corruption or the inconvenient death of a computer. I use both programs, but I recently discovered there is one obnoxious drawback to storing copies of your writing on the cloud.
Syncing is a convenient, and necessary, feature for cloud storage services. Yet even thought this feature negates the need for twenty zillion copies of the same file, it can cause havoc when you’re working on synced files on more than one computer or handheld-smart-device-of-your-choosing.
I feel like I nodded off in October and woke up in December with only a vague recollection of the month-long chaos that was November. It feels like a dream already. Who knows, maybe it was?
Well if I managed to write 50,000 words while I was asleep and didn’t realize it then this getting to be a published author thing is gonna be vanilla cake. Or maybe red velvet. Haven’t made up my mind yet.
I made it to 50,000 words after midnight last night. I’m wicked tired today. So all I’m going to do is post my gorgeous winner’s badge.
Debrief shall follow on Monday, after I’ve had a chance to sleep…
I’ve finally caught up, and I’m on track to finish on time. (The progress bar may not reflect that just yet because it is not cooperating with me at the moment.) I will probably push to finish tonight so that I can spend Friday kicking back and celebrating. Plus, spec fic author Cherie Priest will be doing a reading at my favorite indy bookstore in Chapel Hill, and I don’t want to miss it, or be thinking about my novel while she’s trying to read hers.
The current chapter in my NaNo novel is full of plot weeds. Evil, pernicious plot weeds.
Plot weeds function kind of like a strangler fig. They wiggle their way up the trunk of your beautifully cultivated plot tree, weave their way through its branches, and before you can yank them out at the root, they’ve got your tree trapped in their deadly web.
Ah, but the plot weeds aren’t done yet.
They begin life as epiphytes, which are the plant equivalent of symbiotes, but end their lives as parasites.
I’m still behind.
And as you can see, I’m desperate enough to resort to pain as a motivator for racheting up my sagging word count.
Okay, not really. I thought using the pin would amuse my ML (municipal liason for those who don’t speak NaNo).
My ultimate conclusion is that great art may emerge from explorations of pain, but its damn hard to type when you’ve got a miniature clothespin tacked to the back of your thumb.
If I were Will Robinson, and my Class M-3 Model B9 was hooked up to my NaNo word count, it would be spazzing out right about now.
I’ve been mad busy at my new job, and homecoming weekend is about to deal a heavy blow to my free time. I’m certainly not complaining about having a job in which going to multiple sporting events is required. I just wish that they had picked a more reasonable (and warmer) month to have homecoming. September? October, perhaps?
Any month but November would have been nice.
A typical Monday-morning question that people get from their co-workers is, “How was your weekend?”
And your answer to that question will almost always be, “Fine, and how was yours?”
Short, sweet, and prevents you from having to admit that you spent your entire weekend on the couch eating ramen and watching back-to-back episodes of Law and Order (flipping through five different channels, no less).
But another thing I find myself saying when someone asks me that innocuous weekend question is, “I didn’t get as much done as I wanted to.”