I had been doing so well, and then yesterday, I didn't have that great motivation to write anymore (because I had finished the story? It has to be, right?), though I did jot down story ideas, and I think most people would count that as writing, if not toward their word count.
But I didn't, and today was Sunday, and I hadn't written anything. I did a bit of podcast editing, but knew that once everyone had gone to sleep and all was quiet, that it would be my time to write. I even dangled a carrot in front of myself--I could watch a TV show that had been waiting for me if I managed to write, even if it was only five hundred words.
But I didn't want to. I had no ideas I was excited about, and I didn't want to pursue either of the ones I'd made notes for the day before. I also had an audio drama I had started in February (that I figured I would enter into the DeathScribe competition in Chicago), but I didn't want to work on that at all, once I realized my work-in-progress was already twenty minutes long, and the cut-off was ten minutes.
But I remembered what people have said at writer's conferences and in books, that exercise gets your blood flowing and you start to have ideas and creative sparks. It's certainly been the case for me when I'm mowing the lawn or raking up leaves,
The exercise was--big shock--no fun, and I spent the whole jog around the blocks thinking about the time I was podcasting out there and some guy pulled over and asked what I was doing there and that there had been suspicious activity in the neighborhood, so I went home and continued podcasting on my front lawn only to have him follow me there, still in his car, the police on his speed dial.
I came back in and sat myself down and typed. I typed whatever came to mind, which was a little story so stupid and not-worth-mentioning that no one will ever read it, except perhaps at my funeral.
Perhaps tomorrow will be better. But hey, perhaps it could be worse.
Words Today: 380
Words Total: 7869
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