This week went way too fast.
I thought this sabbatical year would involve long, uninterrupted days of concentrated writing time, interspersed with cups of tea, long walks and occasional errands. Maybe I’ll get there, but this particular week was not like that. This week, I spent most of my time running around with my kids or helping out at their school with the committees I’ve joined (and there is a LOT of volunteer work required at the beginning of the school year).
I got some great writing work done on a couple of days, but not everyday. I did some research and added to a (very important) scene where my two main characters meet up after ten years apart. I’m happy about what I accomplished, but I don’t feel I accomplished enough.
What is “enough”? Ah, that’s complicated. Sometimes it’s a daily or weekly word count. Sometimes it’s finishing a scene. Sometimes it’s putting a certain number of hours into writing. On rare, wonderful days, I can step away from my desk and pat myself on the back for accomplishing “enough.”
When I don’t get “enough” done, though, my instinct is to beat myself up. I feel guilty and I start berating myself and feeling anxious and down and hypochondriacal, wondering if I’m making a huge mistake by even attempting to write this book.
I’m trying to change that. I’m striving to stay positive and be nicer to myself when things don’t go the way I planned. I wrote 1000 words this week; maybe next week it’ll be 2000. Or 3000. Or more. Or maybe life will interfere again, and I have to be ok with that.