I started a new project a few weeks ago. The words flowed from my fingers freely, and plentifully. It was very exciting, and what resulted totaled about two thousand words.
It was a good start to my work in progress. After a little editing the next day, I moved forward, getting fifteen hundred words down without a break. And they were good.
The next day was almost as productive, and I reached for the notes about the book I had made when I was supposed to be sleeping, putting the new thoughts into the piece. Some surprise developments delighted me.
The next day was Saturday. I don’t usually get to write on Saturdays.
As in all weeks, the next day was Sunday. That’s the day I catch up on chores. So no writing.
Monday morning, back at the computer, I edited, put in details, refined, explained, and in general was pleased with the result. I was closing in on ten thousand words and I still had ideas left. (The book is to be full length, so it isn’t so remarkable that I still had more to say.) One idea I didn’t have, however, was where it was all going, but I still had confidence that the characters would let me know. In the meantime, they were entertaining and I was enjoying myself, even if I only wrote about seven hundred words.
I made some more progress the next day, but it was getting harder. Still, I had some additional ideas overnight, so I was ready to write on Wednesday, and I did.
Thursday I just typed the newest ideas onto the bottom of the document, readying them to become actual sentences, thoughts, and story. I was annoyed at myself, though, for letting down on the momentum, but told myself I needed a mental rest.
Friday I thought about the book. I didn’t go near the computer. We could chalk that up to the snowstorm that kept my husband home from work, but it isn’t exactly the whole truth. He was outside shoveling for a while, after all.
So what happened? I still like the book as much as ever, but I can’t seem to work up the energy to keep up my early pace. And if experience is any guide, it’s only going to get worse. I’ll be mentally slogging my way through the deep sand of words with less of the excitement I originally felt. I’ll be seeing the true meaning of working on a book.
Does anyone else have these problems? More importantly, does anyone have a solution?