Though it may be six-oh-five AM, already I have the opening line of my next novel in my head. I actually came to me about a half-hour earlier as I lay in bed, growing slowly awake. I edited it a bit as I ran the line over and over, so that I now is set as how I want it to appear in the story.
The path is waiting, and I’m ready to hike.
I should have started writing a couple of days before, but I didn’t. There are various reasons I can point towards, but the truth remains I wasn’t ready. I get in this strange state of mine where I know whatever I’m going to write will suck, or seem ridiculous, or simply isn’t worth the time I’m putting into the story–and then I break through all that crap and start. I do this with almost every story. It’s all that negative reinforcement I used to give myself back in the Bad Old Days, when I’d tell everyone I was working on a story, when in reality I was doing nothing but thinking about how great it would be to write.
Today I start. I know I will because I created a spreadsheet to track my NaNo progress. Oh, I hear you now: “You’re not suppose to start until Friday! Cheater!” Yeah, yeah, go find a name for your dragon, ‘kay? ‘Cause I know this, and I compensated. The spreadsheet shows fifty-four thousand words being written over thirty-two days, and when you work out the averages, that’s 1,688 words a day, with just over fifty thousand of them written in November. I’ve got it covered, don’t worry. I do this for a living.
I’ve said a few times already all that remains is the writing, and soon that’ll be behind me. I know where this story is headed, probably better than any story I’ve ever written in the last two and a half years. Because it seems as if I’ve spent forever dealing with this and the characters. The only other stories I’ve fallen into this much are my Transporting stories, and I’ve had over twenty years to think about those characters and what will happen to them.
This story I wanted to start last year, but didn’t because . . . various things. It’s always various things with me, but it was enough to know I shouldn’t try writing it because it would have ended up a mess. And it still could: I’m under no illusions that I’m going to write something so wonderful it’ll burn the very paper upon which the story is set with its magnificence. I just want this tale told, just like with any other story, and it’s high time I get about telling.
It’s been a while since I’ve plopped down close to two thousand words a day, so back into Discipline Mode I go. Cut out the games, cut out the distractions, cut out–as my one true friend Trusty Editortm calls it–the insane, time-wasting crap that envelops us whenever we sneak online. That’ means I’ll be an unseen presence prowling here and then–which, if I’m honest, is how I spend most of my time online these days.
It’s time to write. I’m ready.
That’s what matters right now.