I’m not really sure why I’m trying to write fifty thousand words during November any more – I’m just kind of “doing it”, because I thought it would be a romantic, or eccentric thing to do – something to tick off the bucket list.
In the days before starting, in late October, I remember worrying about the impending idiocy – wondering what on earth I had gotten myself into – even though I’ve attempted the same challenge in the past.
Perhaps I have been able to just get on with writing for the same reason I seem to be able to get on with dish washing, clothes washing, empting rubbish bins, cleaning kitchens, bathrooms, and all those other chores that might otherwise trigger a falling-down moment.
It’s the whole “putting one foot in front of another” thing, isn’t it. If you keep doing it for long enough, you end up getting to the finish line.
I’m on day thirteen of thirty, and have a little under eight thousand words until the finish line. I wonder how much the t-shirts cost?