This struck me yesterday while I sat and bichoked my way to 718 words. (I need thousands, but 718 is what I got.)
Writers mine words like those words were gold. Sometimes I hit a rich vein, sometimes it's hardscrabble, and sometimes it's fool's gold. But every day, I don my helmet and tie on a toolbelt. Some days, at the end, I look like I've moved mountains—with a smudged face and wild hair—and maybe only have 200 new words in my backpack to show for my work. Other days, I walk out of my writing space and look like I haven't broken a sweat, and that day I may have mined 718 words or 1,718 words, or more. Like buttah.
My talent for this business lies in my ability to mine everyday. To up my required load. Or is that lode?
Nanowrimo has at least gotten me to the point where I'm less than satisfied with anything under 500. That doesn't mean I don't have 200 word days, I do. I'm just not satisfied.
In On Writing, Stephen King tells us that he doesn't stop until he hits 2000 words. What he doesn't exactly spell out, but what I think is probably the case, he has plenty of days when his word count is double or triple or even quadruple his target. 2000 becomes a benchmark. A flag gets raised and a silent hallelujah is sung.
The coolest thing? Just because King and Koontz and Connelly are mining a gazillion words every day, we're in no danger of running out. (Oh shoot . . . there's that fear thing again.)
Well, I'm off to the mines.
Still reading: Field of Blood (which is a paranormal thriller and pretty darned interesting.)
It's all better with friends.