It amazing how much your days off can be disrupted by having some work done in your apartment. My shower installation is finished. Just one more day of showering upstairs and then my shower is mine. Needs a good clean up, needs the shower curtain installed and all my stuff moved back in, but it’s done. My iron-fisted dominion of my tiny apartment can continue unchallenged! (Except for the cat, with whom I am eternally at war for dominance.)
I think that I can blame my job for being somewhat antisocial off-hours. My parents may not have expected that, and I know I certainly didn’t. I took comfort, before the move, knowing that if I was lonely in the weeks following I could always go upstairs to their apartment. But I haven’t availed myself of that much, less than a handful of times. I talk to people all day. I must be social and chipper and bright all day. I cannot do it all night as well. Or at least, not every night. With writing two nights a week and whatever other trouble I get into, I enjoy — nay, savor — my silence and solitude, and I have felt it’s loss keenly these last two weeks.
Breaks my heart a little to think, “Well, NEXT weekend will be all mine,” as that’s what got me through last weekend. Not much to be done about that, though.
In fact, one of the pleasant surprises is that I seem to be breaking up my day into useful chunks of time. I’m getting to do a little of all of the things I want to do without feeling like I’m spending the entire day doing only one at the exclusion of all others. This is good.
I did write today, which surprised the hell out of me. True, I was pretty pokey about it. I was parked on the couch, feet up, computer on my lap. As soon as I moved to the desk near the end of the day, words starting coming much faster but by then it was dinner time. I was just shy of 1,000 words. All told, I’ve got near 1,500 words for the last two days. No completed Chapter Five, but much closer than I was before. And the draft is at 9,200 words, very close to the magic 10,000, which also pleases me. The critiques for the writing meeting are done, and I’ve been getting some fiction reading in as well as some video game playing.
Why is 10,000 magical? Not sure. Just came to me right now, but I suppose by the time you hit 10,000 words, you aren’t fucking around anymore. You’ve got a project. You’re serious. And it’s akin to a proto-star that’s just hit that magic point where suddenly gravity is on your side and is doing the work for you, pulling in the dust and debris and building a solar system. It can’t help but get larger. The project has a life of its own.