Today is a busy day. Not it’s going to be a busy day, but it’s busy. I heard there is snow and ice on my route home, so tonight could be a little trick as I return to the wilds of northwest Indiana. No big deal. I’ll get home.
I’ll also be on the web speaking to my therapist, because I miss her and we have things to say to each other. It’s been three months since I was on the couch, and our time together was some good stuff, and I’m looking to get back into a routine because, why not? We all need a little routine in our lives.
Writing is a routine. I didn’t get much done on Saturday, but Sunday I finished Chapter Five, got two of my main characters, Keith and Elektra (yeah, that’s really her name) together, and saw my muse vanish for the time being. I ended up writing about twelve hundred and fifty words, and I have officially passed into the Country of Novella, where all the officials are corrupt, and are just looking for the right moment to throw your ass under the jail—usually after you don’t make your word count.
So all my players are upon the stage, with only a couple of bit players remaining to show up now and then to move the story along. I’m happy with the progression, even if I’m seeing a fifty day time line for writing the first draft, with fourteen days behind me. It’s better than saying it’s going to take sixty days to write it, which may have been more real at the beginning when I had no idea how big the story would become—and with my counts down and analyzed, right now I’m on the cusp of a sixty-three thousand word story that could, realistically, end up being sixty-five to seventy thousand words.
I almost always set goals for myself when I’m writing. A thousand words a day; sixty-five thousand words for a novel; four stories published in 2013. I do the same thing in stories; there are always things that are going to happen, and they will happen when they happen, so I never worry if something doesn’t happen, because it happens in its own good time.
When I was laying out my timelines on Saturday, the notion hit me that I probably have more to write than I can ever write. If I write a novel every ninety days, and spend another ninety days editing it while working on another novel or novella, then I could publish two to three novels a year—assuming I did it all the self-publishing route. I know that, for one series, I could likely do twenty stories, and when you do the math, that’s almost seven years of steady work to get those all published. Which means I’d be in my early sixties before that work is finished—
If I start now.
Oh, this is what is known as job security, right? The fact that I have a ton of work, and maybe twenty years to get it done.