I love deadlines. I love the whooshing sound they make as they go by. – Douglas Adams
That's me. I was supposed to have the second draft of Scurvy Dogs done long ago. I don't. The self-imposed deadlines keep whooshing by. (The story is that Adams had missed many deadlines for The Hitchhikers' Guide to the Galaxy and finally the publisher called and said, "Look, finish the page you're on. We'll send someone over to get it in half an hour.")
Mostly I blame work. Gotta pay the rent, right? And it's hard to get a head of steam going when you're constantly stopping to write something for pay. It's that old conundrum.
But really I have no one and nothing to blame but myself. I mean, I could just not take on so many assignments. It would make things a little tough at rent time, but we could manage it. I choose to do other things – write pay copy, meet with friends who visit New Orleans, get blisteringly drunk as I celebrate Mardi Gras with a Pirate Krewe.
And not working regularly on the book – some weeks no more than a few hundred words get written, and because I have no momentum they mostly suck – means what's the point in working on this blog? So here we go.
Even when I haven't been able to work on it, I've thought about it constantly, and really like the story. Just have to get it written down. It's very, very different than the first draft, and I'm happy about that. I'm choosing to finish this story. It's a good one.
I'm aiming to be done at the end of the month. Possible? Yeah, but frankly not likely. I've got about 30,000 words to go. But if I get close, and get the ball rolling again, I'll feel good about it. I'll have to put my head down, ignore work, ignore distractions. Get it done. Then see where I am.
Scurvy Dogs! Let's go!