Write, and then write more.

Yesterday was not a writing day, but I did have a nice time with the charming darling from down the street. 3 year olds are fun. I almost typed that I miss when my boys were three but I have to correct myself and be honest. I miss when Mr. Smarty Pants was 3. When Mr. Autism was 3, it was not very much fun at all. You could not pay me enough to relive that time in our lives. But anyhow, I digress.

Today was a writing day, and I may yet write more. The time from bus to bus is not as long as I wish it would be sometimes. One goes on a bus at 8 am, the other at 9:15ish. One returns home at 3:15ish, the other at 4:15ish. Add in some housework, some time with coffee and a book, a shower, and lunch and the writing hours are not as long as I might wish.

It is productive though. Today, I advanced the book by over 3500 words so far. It might've been more, but I reached a section where I had to go into my notes pretty intensely to make sure I didn't make mistakes.

I'm trying not to leave too many places where I highlight in yellow to tell myself "go back and fix this later". So far I have 3 places. Not so bad. They are 3 small details that will add up to a whole picture, but not worth stopping for during the first draft.

Today I had the insane notion that perhaps I could make some mad dash and finish the first draft before my birthday next Wednesday. I don't know why I always do this to myself. I set insane deadlines, don't meet them, get discouraged and then stop altogether.

So I'm not setting that deadline. I hope I will be much closer to the end of the first draft when my 32nd birthday rolls around. Killing myself to get there won't do anybody any good. I would have to burn the candles at both ends and on the sides.

I'm not sure what it is within me that makes me want to push so hard. I would do this with school papers as well. Leave it for too long- pull an all-nighter, mainlining coffee, smacking myself in the face to finish, racing against daylight. I pulled it off, every time. It was ugly. I hated how I felt, but I did it. Maybe I'm a secret adrenaline junkie?

Who knows?

I do know if I try it with this, my most important writing project ever, no one will have clean underwear, we'll be living on mac and cheese, and I'll get myself sick.

It's just so tempting, regardless. I'm impatient to be done, to have told the story.