Two days ago I sat down and worked on my novel for an hour. Then I freaked out and gave into the massive guilt trip that engulfed me.
Today I didn’t wait until the end of the day and the completion of my to do list to start writing. The story had been niggling me all night and I couldn’t wait to let my ideas play on the page. I opened the document and told myself I’d write for an hour and “work” after.
Two hours later I had to rip myself from the page so I could get to circle time at C’s preschool on time. I couldn’t stop beaming.
Sure, most of what I wrote was terrible. I knew that as I was writing. I just kept thinking “First drafts are supposed to suck. First drafts are supposed to suck” and pushing through. I know I’ll have to go back and cut a ton of it. I know what’s going to need to be beefed up or toned down. But I also know that lots of what I wrote was good, that the characters that I introduced are just right, and I have a hunch that the story will work.
All of that is exciting, but what’s truly thrilling is that I didn’t feel guilty after shutting down the computer. I just felt happy. That’s gotta be good, right?