I’ve written every single day for the past 36 days. And with just a couple exceptions (several days when I tinkered – over and over – with the final pages of my draft), each day I wrote 1000 words.
This new disciplined approach to my writing process has been a pleasant surprise.
It’s easier slipping into the flow.
The words come more easily.
The nasty inner critic’s voice is fading.
I’m not feeling nearly the angst and envy that dogged me this spring and early summer.
My writing muscles are stronger. Leaner.
I really and truly feel like a writer.
It finally hit me that it’s now or never time. I’m forty-five, and if I want a career as a writer I need to work at it. Every day. I can’t afford to take days off and allow my muscles to atrophy. I have to keep writing so the stories are fresh in my mind, the characters living and breathing alongside me. I have to be there for them. Every day.
As of this morning I have 5000 words of my new project which, when completed, will be my fifth novel. I like the sound of that: My fifth novel.
I’m a writer and I write novels.
I’m working on my fifth.