As it is Labor Day, I am going to abstain from labor, which entails not inputting an entry today.
[Smartass to the end. –K]
***Well, this is going to be anticlimactic. The plan that I kept alluding to (if I hadn't told you outright) was to write fifty thousand words towards a novel in thirty days. The final tally, about thirty thousand words towards a novel in thirty days.
Fuck.
I was doing fine, keeping on track with about one thousand six hundred sixty seven words a day for about twenty days, give or take. Then, I started being social and doing stuff with other people. That really screwed up the plan. Not that I blame anyone but myself. It's just odd that, at least in my life, it seems like I've got to choose between doing my thing and doing stuff with others. Really, I could've gotten it all done, if I'd given up on sleep, but I do love my sleep (i.e. I can't stay up that late anymore, and I don't have a supply of modafinil, yet).
More and more, life as I live it is all about sacrifices. I have to pick and choose what I do, what I don't do. I don't have time enough for myself, much less everyone else. There aren't that many things that I want, but the things I do want out of life require so damned much effort. There's a reason why I gave up video games, because they weren't contributing towards helping me towards these end goals.
I'm a little sad (a sad-let?), but I'm also a little glad (glad-let?). Didn't get everything done that I wanted to this month, but I did do a lot, and what I do have in the novel (placeholder title of "Saving Grace" because I couldn't think of anything else) is pretty good, I think. It needs editing, much as every action I take needs editing, but the kernel of a story is there. And there's nothing keeping me from attempting the same thing next month. I've proven I can write 30k words in a month, so 60k over two months is not that bad.
OK, it's bittersweet. I really don't know if this novel is it, if it'll ever get published. I hope like hell it is. My day job has always been the thing I do to keep myself from starving, and the writing is what makes me me. But do I put so much emphasis on whether or not being published means I'm validated? If I just keep on writing for the rest of my life, never get published, and only manage to make my family and friends laugh through the little bits that they read, is that good enough? God only knows. I'm trying, and I'll keep on trying, because when you get down to it, this is all I've got. Take every other thing from me, go ahead. You can never take the writing, damnit. You can't take my stories from me, you can't take my imagination, you can't take my hopefulness.
I hope that's not another functional lie.
And I guess one of the questions that evolves from that whole spiel is whether or not I'm putting Writ on hiatus again. The answer, as always on this journey, is "Depends." Why diapers are so multifunctional, I don't know. I'm never going to keep a journal of my own anymore, because my journal writing always follows the same arc, one entry every three weeks of "wow this sucks." I've gone back through Writ every now and then and looked back at the stupid shit that I've gone through, that I've thought, and what have you. It's not a perfect journal, but it's a pseudo-memoir. Although, to be fair, I still self-edit a lot. Then again, I have to. I type what I'm thinking at any given moment, a lot of you would be pissed. Hell, I almost deleted that last sentence, but I think you all know, like thought crimes, a man cannot be held responsible for what he is thinking at any given moment, only what he acts upon.
Why am I so rambly all of a sudden? Because I'm approaching another crossroads, and I didn't get nearly enough sleep over the weekend. Sleep deprivation strips away all the self-imposed barriers and lets K.T. emerge from the calloused cocoon he stays hidden away in for the most part. Whether butterfly or moth depends on the day, but generally the sleep deprivation has treated me pretty well, except for treating me pretty shitty.
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