I reported yesterday what a disastrous week I’d had with my novel writing. And it couldn’t have come at a worse time… just as I’d launched on a neck and neck race with Sheepish. So the week was a disaster: draw a line under it. There is no point in dwelling on it but nor did I want to produce a shameful 600 words which is all I’d managed. I’d done well enough the previous week to make up for a shortfall this time but, you know, I didn’t want to give Sheepish the satisfaction… Although… maybe, I could mess with her head? I could lull her into a false sense of security, couldn’t I? Then she'd relax and I'd whip her woolly bum next week? *Clears throat* that sounded better in my head.
No no no. I said 500 words a day, five days a week. That’s my minimum. There was nothing else for it but to dedicate my Sunday to it.
So Sheepish, punctuated by Sunday lunch at the pub with family, I’ve had two Starbucks stints today and my words this week: 2607. I have to say, even though you’ve beaten me, that I am a bit proud of myself. It takes my total word count (as you can see left) to 68,000.
I can do this. I can.