Probably not going to go anywhere, but it’s always nice to be productive. Fair amount of words on the page, too.
It’s the most interesting and rewarding part of my job. I don’t get to do these types of projects often, usually only once every couple of years. But they’re the only time I get paid specifically to be a writer. It’s when I feel most like all is right with the world.
Not “no dread,” but a lot less than I feared I’d have. Due to a combination of being able to telecommute and liking my job, tomorrow feels more like just another week and not the end of a good time.
I also may yet finish writing another book in 2022. Nice to transition back to my regular hours with some optimism.
Technically I have time left, so I haven’t failed yet. But let’s be realistic, I’m not getting from my current 12,000 words to 50,000 before the 30th.
The first week went alright. I had a schedule going and it was gradually getting better. Then…. I don’t fucking know. Kids starting waking up absurdly early for no goddamn reason. Extra bullshit came up that I had to work on at 6:00 AM instead. Take your pick, life just decided my plans were pointless yet again and I simply have not been in a place to set aside time since.
I got miserably depressed when I couldn’t keep my schedule, even my shitty one that only yielded like 20 minutes of actual writing time a day. I’m still pretty pissed about it.
But I’ve made peace with the NaNoWriMo thing. That’s just an arbitrary deadline. It’s a gimmick. I never cared about that as much as I did actually writing again.
And I did, at least a little. It’s not much, but if I can get the same amount done on a month to month basis, I’ll be finished with this book well within a year. And that’s the pace I want, anyway.
So what the hell am I bitching about? I didn’t get to stress out 300 words at the worst time of day to meet an entirely nonsense goal set by other people who are neither publishing my book nor paying me? No big deal.
I’ll find another way. Saturdays seem like a good time to write.
I’ll be honest, I’ve never put the effort into marketing my books that I really need to in order to make self-publishing lucrative. The main reason I’ve gone the self-publishing route is because the anguish of repeatedly playing that stupid “Dear sir or madam” bullshit game with queries kept eating away at my desire to write, and I really just wanted to move on with my life every time I wrote a novel. Self-publishing has always been a good way to wrap a bow on whatever I’ve done and start something new.
The problem is that once you put in the effort of paying for a cover designer and getting a book to a storefront, it’s hard not to then start looking for validation in the form of sales. Which, if you’re not actively marketing – and again, I’m not – you won’t see.
So I used to go into this stupid depression cycle where I’d feel antsy that I wasn’t being more productive on whatever I’m currently writing, then I’d check my Kindle sales for everything I’d already published, see that they were still zero for the day, feel mopey that they weren’t already 10 billion, and then, devastated, I’d refuse to put in any work on either marketing or writing, leaving me with nothing to do except check my book sales again. And it’s even stupider because I truly do write for the love of writing, not to be rich, so why the fuck do I even care about sales?
Anyway, I’m not checking that shit anymore. I think I’ve reached a point where I have a system that works for me just to keep the pipeline moving. I might try again at getting an actual agent for my next book, but that’s no reason I can’t keep doing my self-publishing stuff on my own terms. Why the fuck not.
Oh, also, you can buy my books here. I probably should have linked that sooner. I’m not good at marketing.
I’m not nearly as far along with it as I need to be to keep up with NaNoWriMo’s arbitrary goals. I’m only at about 6,000 words instead of the roughly 12,000 I should be by now. But who cares. Focusing on word count is the worst way to write.
The thing that matters is I’ve taken my ambiguous half-thoughts and extended them out into a basic skeleton of a story, so I am no longer meaninglessly rambling and am instead actually writing again. It’s the best feeling I know.
Hopefully I’ll have the ending figured out in another week or so. It’ll be fun puzzling that out.
I’m trying to be up at 5:30 every day this month so I can get an extra hour each day to work on NaNoWriMo, since lord knows anything after the kids are awake is a shitshow.
5:30 is too fucking early for any human being to be awake. People who are up that early naturally should not be in charge of anything.
So far the earliest I’ve been able to drag my ass out of bed has been 6:00. So I’ve really only been getting like 30 minutes of writing in the morning. But… I have been up by 6:00 for three consecutive day, so that’s something. Gotta start somewhere.
Thank god. I feel physically ill when I go too long between projects.
My coworker is doing NaNoWriMo and wanted a writing buddy. I did this a couple times way back when my kids were just babies and I’ve opted out the last few years since I had a pretty good routine outside of November.
This is as good a reason as any to get started again. I need something to look forward to. I cannot stress enough how bad my depression gets when I don’t stay busy. I can’t stop moving. I don’t have bipolar disorder, I have shark disorder.
The real question is if I’m going to self publish again. I don’t know. On the one hand I need it as a cap to my efforts. On the other, I think going unnoticed on the market is a big reason I get discouraged from doing it again.
Guess you’ll find out in like a year or two.
I often get bummed out by the lack of an audience for my books. I mean, that’s kinda the whole premise of this blog. But no matter how much despair I might feel about shoveling my writing into the void, I gotta remember: at least I’m not famous for something I did back when I was 20 and both my writing and my brain sucked.
Like, it’s not just that the shit I wrote back then wasn’t good. It’s that if I did somehow have a huge hit at that time, I’d have spent the last 17 years thinking I was the greatest fucking thing on the planet. I’d be shitting out all kinds of lazy opinions like a somehow even worse Max Landis, and I would never understand why people thought I was a fucking dick.
Fame seems to be bad enough for people who actually do have self awareness. Thank Christ, man. I know it probably sounds like bullshit that I say to get through the day, but I really mean it. I’m much happier that I became a better writer instead of peaking before I had a fully developed frontal cortex.
Apologies to all the kids actors out there who never had a chance, I’m sure you did your best.