Writing is a horrid vocation. Absolutely horrid. No matter what you do, you never seem to do enough, or do it well enough, and it leaves you wracked with guilt.
Even worse, when you set yourself a goal.
And you watch those goals go through the rearview mirror and never see them again.
And you're once again wracked by guilt.
So I set myself a NaNoWriMo goal.
NaNoWriMo is an annual, international event. It asks you to write 50,000 in the month of November on your given project.
I set myself this target, and promptly fell ill. Today's been the first day I've felt normal enough to write anything more than a blog post complaining about feeling ill.
So as of now, five days in, I have 1264 words written. By rights, by the end of this day, to keep on track, I'd be wanting to have around 8500 words on the page. It hasn't happened.
Today got derailed by friends dropping over, breakfast out, lots of washing and a few episodes of Friends.
I reckon I might plant myself in the State Library on Melbourne Cup Day and see if I can catch up a bit.
The struggle is real. Hoping some inspiration comes with the decrease in snot.
I hate missing deadlines.
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