End of April. How did that happen? This month has flown by, and I haven’t gotten much writing done, for reasons good and bad.
In the good column: the conference, the UK trip, time spent playing with Sweetpea.
In the bad column: jetlag, taxes, and a corneal abrasion that isn’t healing well. Plus about a billion medical appointments to deal with aforesaid injury and other kerfuffle.
In short, lots of reasons not to write. But I’ve been in the not-writing place before, and I know it doesn’t make me happy.
What *does* makes me happy is squeezing novel-writing into my day somehow, even if it’s just for a half hour or so. Trouble is, it’s hard to remember that when I’m exhausted and strung out and my mind has all the staying power of a sodden sponge. At those moments, novel-writing sounds like an impossible dream, and I figure I might as well sort laundry or pay bills. Or, worse still, trawl the net (so pathetic, I know, but it’s true).
So what I’ve been doing this week is lowering the bar. I’m no longer aiming for five hours a week, let alone ten, because that’s just not possible now. But 15 minutes a day — that I can do. And sometimes more (though not much more, this week).
The new approach is making me surprisingly happy. And it seems to be sparking good things in the novel itself.
So that’s become my goal for May: Fifteen minutes of novel-writing a day. I’m even going to shoot for the weekend days, too, just as an experiment.