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: