Day Two Progress Report

Day Two Progress Report

Well, my earlier powers of prognostication were wrong and I was able (barely) to generate the absolute bare minimum of writing required to make par for day two. It exhausted me and, after doing so, I required a long and fitful rest filled with more visitations (maybe I should see a doctor about that) and strong urge to tell the world to sincerely fuck off and slumber for the rest of my remaining days.

Alas! I was called once again to play master chef and, with tears in my eyes, I dragged myself out of a not-quite-dead-yet state to wrangle up some grub for the resident monsters.

While I am proud of my commitment to the cause to write a truncated day’s worth of writing (about half of what is required and a third of what I wrote yesterday), I am loath to note that my creativity has left like a wet fart out of my brain cavity and left me with just cantankerous dwellings on life in general.

So, par for NaNoWriMo on day two is 3334 words and I think I exceeded that by a hefty number with dual natures of 6 and 9, depending on your perspective (don’t go there, please). I’m not proud. If there was something like 10,000 words written on day two, I might be proud, but I don’t write that fast.

Warning: Maths ahead

Yes, it’s disturbing to see statistics on the NaNo site that show that, at best, I average 22 words a minute. Eesh. Ignoring partial words, that means I’ll need to write some 2,273 minutes before I hit 50k words, or 38 sordid hours (in more practical terms). And, as it has been pointed out, 50,000 words is more in the range of a short novella and 100k word is more in the range of a moderate novel (150k for a single episode of epic fantasy), which means I would have to write (only for a first draft) at least 120 hours for the first of a trilogy of epic fantasy. Now, assuming that I am a stellar first draft writer (I’m not), I can safely assume that means double the time would be required for a first revision and the same amount as initially, again for subsequent revisions. That puts me on the order of about 500 hours to write the first book in a trilogy and get it ready for publication and now you know precisely why I do this largely because I am compelled to write and not with designs on publication. 1500 hours doesn’t seem like much for a trilogy — it’s about the same as the required hours to become a cosmetologist in Minnesota (yeah, don’t ask how I know that). But I don’t want to begin to see writing as a job and subsequently take all the fun out of it.

And that’s not even bringing up the current internet culture of fan entitlement where if you do something your readers dislike, or there is an unexpected delay in your next volume, that they feel justified in sending you death threats or wishing you die of cancer. It’s bullshit like that that made me decide being a well-known author was just not worth the crap that goes along with it (assuming, of course, I could commit myself to the discipline to actually write more consistently and ‘git gud’).

As most of the world seems to know, we are looking at a deathly combination of national elections and coronavirus rising (sounds like a B-type film when I put it that way, and… maybe it should be, all things considered). I’m serious, real life cannot possibly get more campy than it is these past few weeks. Don’t take my word on that, I said the same thing a year ago and it has gone beyond my wildest expectations. As the tribes are lining up for griefing each other, I am hunkering down, getting my flu shot and taking lots of zinc and vitamin C. I wish I could say this will all go away in a few days time, but I honestly wonder if we haven’t hit the point of no return and things will start to actually get really wonky instead of calming the hell down.

Me, I’m like most… I just want to get on with life. But now I’m playing the presidential text adventure on my mobile phone — the kind where no matter what you write, the response is “I don’t understand that command” and eventually that highway running through out little part of the solar system must go through and some aliens deciding humans are “mostly harmless” blow up the planet to make way for that interstellar highway. So, my evening has so far been me trying to get out of the text game I never started with folks trying to get me to vote even though I have already for their candidate of choice.

Meanwhile, the covid numbers in the surrounding states are doing what I like to remind other, less stats-savvy folks, is call “exponential growth”. It looks like we’re climbing Everest because, duh, we are. “OPEN UP” they shout. “DOWN WITH MASKS!” They add. Meanwhile, I stand with my can of Lysol at the ready and spray anyone coming within six feet of me, trying really hard not to say “I told you so.” I’m not interested in this particular expedition, sad to say.

Maybe I should stick to poetry. Only weirdos like me like poetry…

I think the final straw for me today was reading one of those horrid little rankings articles “The Best Albums of The Cure, Ranked” that are almost never reflective of anything that anyone would agree to and got in a rage to see that they’d put “The Top” and “Faith” below atrocities like “Kiss Me (X3)”. I mean, KMKMKM was okay, but definitely not as good as the other two seminal albums. And it had no business being ranked over “Pornography” or “Head on the Door”. I mean, WTAF?

Tasteless people should not post ranking album articles on the internet.

Time to go to bed, methinks.

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