I wrote today. Ok, I really didn’t write.
Wait, I actually write every day. So, I guess it is no big deal. I read every day; however, last year I read a book for the first time in years.
But today, I wrote for me. Ok, I didn’t really write.
I have this 30 thousand word book I started writing 2 years ago. It took me about three weeks to get that far and then I stopped. Oh, I still continued to write the book. Never at a keyboard or where someone else could read it, but I kept writing. Every night as I fell asleep, I replayed a scene picking up details and voices. But nothing ever made it to the page, or screen, or whatever you call where things are stored external to my brain.
But today, I edited the prologue. 413 words.
It was shorter when I began, but now it is a little over four hundred. I added some details about dead cats and the pain of the protagonist. It made me sad. It was nice.
I pulled the prologue out and plopped it into its own Word document. A 30 thousand word document seems too huge and the page count looks at the bottom.
I pulled out the first chapter and second into their own Word documents. And then stopped to write this post. That and the rest of the x number of thousands of words never got broken into chapters. I’ll have to figure that out another day.
But today, I wrote. I made myself feel sad. And I planned for writing again tomorrow.