I’ve been indulging in a lot of productive procrastination lately, and it’s been great. Writing short stories and articles, blogging, even starting to dabble in makeshift philosophy again.
But it’s time to bite the bullet, rip it out of the elephant in the room, and see if I can turn his blood into wine. I may have mixed my symbolism a little there. I am going to start writing my novel. I’ve been getting in the habit of 5am starts and, with this extra time (bought dearly, for I love sleep so) I’m going to start digging into the beast.
And it is a beast. It started as a little sci-fi idea one sleepless, stoned night on a friend’s couch in 2012 and has been expanding and tendrilling through my mind and countless notebooks ever since. I have blackened pages with brainstorming and character ideas, I have mapped out the entire overarching plot from beginning to end, I’ve even come up with some intricate little mindtreats to pepper the book with. What I haven’t done is started writing it, not really. I have about 1000 words of the actual prose written; the book will be at least 100 000 words and I write slowly. So, yeah: it’s time.
I’m going to go from 0 to 100. Starting this Thursday I will be up every weekday at at 5 am to write my novel for two hours. Not character development, not planning: actual writing. I’ll make a small daily post here to track my progress and remain accountable.
I’m scared. Scared I’ll get stuck and never finish it; scared I’ll work for years and produce something I hate; scared of clowns; especially scared I’ll produce something I love and find no one else feels the same. But I’m more scared of never doing it. Also, death I’m scared of…
Here goes, wish me grit!