That song has been going through my head all month - mainly the opening lines:
She's writing, She's writing She's writing a novel. She's writing, she's weaving, Conceiving a plot
Because that's what I'm doing. I'm writing a novel. I'm creating something out of nothing, and conceiving a plot. It's not a good plot. It's not a good novel. But it's something. If I finish, it'll be the third novel I've completed writing. Admittedly, I've never edited a novel. None of them are good enough to even consider editing.
This year, it's been a struggle. I really want to finish. This is my sixth year participating in National Novel Writing Month, and if I reach the required 50,000 word count before November 30, it will be my third time winning. But motivation has been lacking. On the weekends, I've been fantastic, cranking out 5,000, one time nearly 8,000 words. But during the week I've been slacking, telling myself that there's plenty of time to catch up.
My current word count is around 32,700. We're supposed to hit 40,000 today or tomorrow (I don't have my tracking spreadsheet with me, and I'm too lazy to do the mat right now) to stay on track. I'm behind. I'm falling farther and farther behind every day I don't write at least the average pace of 1,667 words a day. I've been steadily writing 10,000 words a week, but that doesn't get me across the finish line on time.
But why am I obsessing so much about averages and pace and word counts? Shouldn't I be doing this for the writing? For the joy of telling my story? That's why I'm struggling. I hate my story. I like bits and pieces of it, but I had no idea a month ago that a story about 5 coworkers who win the lottery together would be so freaking BORING.
But that doesn't matter. It's still a novel. Hopefully the story will wrap itself up when I get to 50k. Maybe I'll like it better on a read-through. I've got almost the entire Thanksgiving weekend to get caught up - it's like two weekends in one! I can do this.
She's writing, she's writing, She's writing a novel...