A few minutes ago I crawled out of bed. Actually it was closer to fifteen minutes ago, but let not get too exact. What was on my mind when I hit the ground and powered up my computer?
The word count of my novel.
Last night I finished up my writing moments with a total word count of 75,197 words. Since I’d started and restarted Scrivener a couple of times during the day, I wasn’t sure just how much I wrote yesterday–I’m guessing it was about thirteen hundred words, just as I’d done the day before.
I finished November 30th with a count of just over sixty-five thousand, two hundred words. Fifteen days later I’m just over seventy-five thousand. A thousand words a day and/or night. Not bad. At that rate I’ll be somewhere around ninety-two thousand by the end of December, and I should have this first episode of the story finish before the end of January.
And at this rate I’ll finish the novel as a whole by . . . what? If this book gets as big as I think it’ll get, I could finish this up just in time to start Camp Nano in July. I’m realistically looking at another six months of writing to cap it off. We’re not even talking about editing it: I’m talking about doing the first draft.
Really, my head about exploded when I considered this.
I think it’s because unlike the other novels I’ve written, this one is happening while I’m in the middle of a lot of other things. Her Demonic Majesty was eighty-six done in twenty-five days because I could spend all day cranking out three or four thousand words a day. The same with Kolor Ijo: I wasn’t working, so seventy-two thousand wasn’t a big deal. Suggested Amusements is really the only novel I’ve written while working that popped up over seventy-thousand words, and that took me almost three months to write. Everything else after that was in the high-fifty thousand range, or was a novella.
This story I’m into now is getting back in the range I had for Transporting: maybe two hundred and fifty thousand words, maybe a little more. It’s gonna be a monster that’s going to eat up at least half a year.
And I still need to put out other things, because the slush pile is building, and nothing’s getting done on that end. I’m in the middle of an edit with one novel, and I could do another novella just to get it out of the way, but editing is time, and time is writing.
Christ, talk about a quandary.
What it looks like is this: I need to step up the game a bit, start dividing my time up and stop with distractions. Yes, I should still go out on weekends and do things that show I’m really human, because staying in the apartment day and night isn’t good for you. But I may need to push for twelve hundred words a night, because in five days time that’s six thousand words, and that’s an extra six thousand words a month than you’d have written if you’d written five thousand every five days. And in three months time, would you have rather written ninety thousand words, or one hundred and eight thousand?
At least I avoided my Robinson Crusoe moment last night.
Wouldn’t that have looked stupid.