“I’m flat broke. This is the only chance I’ve got. I’d owe you,” Pike said intensely. This time, it didn’t sound like innuendo, but it was still a suggestion. I could see Cedric regain his mental footing and perk up at the idea of someone owing him. Oh, Pike had played him well. Pike added, in an off-hand way, “And rumor is that it’s the plushest group you can get. Where are you guys set up, anyway?” Pike played the desperate, slightly dizzy rent boy well.
Cedric smiled like a predator. It did not set a person at ease. “I suppose you’ll find out soon enough. Very well. Follow me.”
from Incognito: the Vertical Street
Hm. Well. I once again decided, before ever starting on a project, that I TOTES knew how much I would be able to write in a day. I made myself a nice little calendar, all filled in with goals for myself. I gave myself a little more than a week of what I classified as light days to ease into the story, then I was supposed to start writing more. 2k a day, five days a week, with two 1k days. Uh-huh. Sure. That’s swell.
I know I am capable of writing at such a pace. I do it in NaNoWriMo every year. Except for the part where, after a week, I start to feel tired, fall behind, and spend the rest of the month doing extra words to get caught up. Then December comes and I’m so burnt out, I take a month off. In the past, I’ve taken rather more than a month off. Closer to six. Because I just emptied my brain that badly.
So after eleven days, I saw that nice note to myself, saying, do double what you’re doing now. (Which is actually more than 2k. I seldom leave scenes unfinished and these have been running 1.5k. So that note really reads as “write two scenes,” which means up to 3k in a day.) To which my muse, my unconscious, whatever, said, “Yeah, awesome, have fun with that. Fuck off and let me sleep.” And that was that. No words. Time at the computer, sure. But no words.
Sometime, I will write the essay I have in my head about self-talk, demands and threats, and the difference between what I can write and what I should write. Suffice to say for now, I make the same stupid mistakes again and again and suffer for it every time. I’m so desperate to just be there, at the end, that I demand I write at lunatic paces. Then I am surprised and offended and ashamed when some part of me with a lot more sense refuses to do that. Indeed, my muse refuses to play at all when I start making demands. I either write at a sane pace or I don’t write at all. So why do I carry around these expectations of doing more, faster?
Some day, I’ll learn. Some day, I’ll accept what I can do, instead of dreaming of what I think I ought to be able to do. For now, the best I can do is take the hint already and go back to what works. Bit by bit, I get there. It’s the only way, even when I wish it wasn’t so.