Carl has zipped off to a shoot, and I’ve only gotten so far as to make a cup of coffee and give the week ahead a bleary squint. Apart from the continued, slightly egomaniacal crankiness that leads one to watch the world’s best tennis players and wonder mournfully why success is so easy for everyone else, I appear to be doing just fine.
I’m even capable of giving a few cheers for my younger brother, who just got accepted into his first choice graduate school (cheers to Fig).
Even a (muted) cheer for the astonishingly imploded housing market of south-east Michigan. Took an Internet jaunt this weekend to check out real estate in our neighborhood. I didn’t know we’d sunk to the $50-70,000 = fairly nice family home point yet, but it does sort of making buying a more interesting option.
Also an interesting option: Food.
My goals for the week are pretty modest. I started my January push hoping for 8,000 words a week (four 2,000 word days; my Saturdays are hopeless, and Carl’s weekend is Sunday/Monday), but I’ve noticed that I can only reliably clock about 1,500 a day. Meaning I can either end each day feeling like a failure and still take an extra month to produce the first draft, or I can end each day feeling like a success and also take an extra month to produce the first draft.
I’ve decided to go with option A.
That makes 6,000 words to stare down this week, which translates to about 20-25 pages. Although the word count is climbing steadily, the plot is off to a slowish start, and I already know I’m going to do a lot of cutting in the second draft, trying to get to the action a bit sooner. That’s pretty normal, as far as I can tell. I’m an over-writer. I’ll jot down two or three options for each adjective, reiterate every point a couple of times, let characters ramble.
That’s what second and third drafts are for, right?
I think I’m ready for the week now. Or at least my second cup of coffee and a quick glance at my crossword puzzle.