Wednesday, October 10, 2012


Maybe there's only so much writing allotted to me.  I'd hoped it wouldn't be so, that writing would be like running: the more I did, the more I was able to do.  Instead, I can track my precipitous dropoff in blogging to the very same week I decided to re-institute my weekly novel-writing quota.

2500 words.  That's all I require of myself, no less, no more.   I finished two novels this way, chugging placidly along like Amtrak's Northeast Regional, and I'm some 40,000 words into another one. 

I haven't published, or even much tried to publish, my works, but I like the sense that I've set, and actually managed to achieve, a goal.  There are so few things that are under one's control in life; extruding words happens to be one of them.  Novel-writing is empowering, even if the results are not particularly readable.

But hey, blogging -down the tubes.  Which I regret.  I think less, when I blog less.   I live life more bluntly, less keenly.  It's drab.

Though I don't supposed you've missed much.  Here's October to date:

  • Coffee
  • Cat
  • Coffee
  • Cold
  • Faulker
  • Tea


Mara said...

You torment me with the thought of all these unread Anne Timberlake novels. I really enjoyed your first--even if I did stink as an editor. Will I ever get to read the others??

Noa said...

This is very inspirational, Anne! I hope I can set such a goal and plug away with the same resolve for my dissertation.