She and I discussed this issue of insufficient production for a while this evening. I think I'm going to reset my goalposts from two hours/2,500 words per day to 17,500 words per week, and give myself the flexibility to balance my time without feeling like I've failed. Given that I wrote 39,000 words last week, that goal has a lot of play in it. But right now I do feel like I failed in not writing yesterday, and in not writing a full two hours today. That's unfair to me and it's unfair to the book. So I bow to the wisdom of calendula_witch, and reset my self-evaluation parameters from daily to weekly.
The reality is I'll probably write pretty much the same. I'll just have more options when things get crunchy, as they have in the past 48 hours.
"We built machines to work the mines, to provide air and light and wondrous goods to the city. Long since abandoned, most of their purposes even forgotten, still we tend those machines." His voice was sad now, tinged with the losses of history and time. "Now in these late days, the sorcerer-engineers mine the old ways for scraps of knowledge. Steam kettle ships come from across the oceans, and some of them even bear light. All our city can do is buy goods off their rails and stare longingly at the iron hulls and the growling power to sail against the wind."
He was pushing me into the precincts of my own memory. "I have sailed aboard those steam kettle ships."
"They were not built by us. Our pride is in our past. The future comes speaking another language, seen first by foreign eyes." That sadness had taken him over completely.
|Originally published at jlake.com.|