I, uh. I’ve talked before, about how I’m a writer — that it’s as much who I am as it is what I do. But stopping to look over what I’ve accomplished as a writer over the last few months . . . I’ve kind of amazed myself.
Because, okay, I wrote a novel. Not a huge one, but still — a whole book. In 14 weeks. I mean, if we subtract the 4-and-a-bit-week break I took about halfway through, then really, I wrote an entire novel in 9.5 weeks. (The ensuing carpal tunnel syndrome is becoming less and less mysterious in origin.)
But, completely aside from that? I looked at my writing journal, and I realized that, uh. I’m kind of a prolific motherfucker. Because, since 2016 began, I’ve written 53, 000-and-change words of novel in addition to 30, 000 words of various fanfiction projects — 10, 000 of which were produced at the same time I was writing the novel — and 1, 500 words of original fiction (one piece was flash fiction, and the other is my current project, and about a quarter of the way to finished).
That means that I have written eighty-five thousand words (!!!!!) of fiction in the last five months.
And that’s just fiction. That’s not even counting the poetry I’ve written (long-hand in various notebooks), my personal journal, or my blog posts. I’d be afraid to guess at how much all the longhand adds up to, but the blog posts alone come out to a tidy 7, 300 words. And, since 85 + 7.3 = 92.3, it’s more than safe to say that I’ve tossed out upwards of a hundred thousand words, and we’re not even halfway through the year yet.
I’m sitting here looking at the numbers, and I’m having a Does Not Compute moment. I want to ask myself “The ffffuuuuuuuuuuuuuck?” because even I have no idea how I did this. Seriously. Pick a random day on a calendar and I can tell you how much I wrote, and will tell how frustrated I got with writing, or that project, or the interruptions I dealt with, and how much more I set out to accomplish that day. I’m not anything like a fast writer–I can put a few hundred words on a page in an hour normally, and manage something a little more than a thousand words on a good day. Never mind the days where I don’t write at all — due to exhaustion, writer’s block, my body and/or brain having a Fuck You day, or simple busyness.
Just. I probably write two days out of every three. I also ate, slept, read entire novels, emailed and visited with friends, and attended weekly appointments with my healthcare team. But all of ^that^ still happened. So, like.
Holy shitnuggets with fucksauce, self. What drugs were you on?
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