This is the progress I have made on my novel:

* 211 double spaced pages
* 68,284 words
* About 50 pages edited for content and style
* An additional 30 pages that have undergone only a style edit

And with the exception of a handful of those final 30 pages, none of that was accomplished since summer began. Most of the development was made last summer during regular stolen hours after work where I chained myself to the keyboard, hammering out strict word count goals under harsh quality standards. And it is no small accomplishment; I’m very proud of what I’ve done to an extent.

But even in terms of the story alone, the novel is only about half done. That doesn’t take into account time required for editing and rewriting. I had counted on this summer to be at least equally productive as last summer, if not more so. But now that the rhythm of the season has begun to settle into place, I’m becoming worried about the feasibility of that goal. Though I am ostensibly working fewer hours than last summer, the schedule is more variable, robbing me of that precious regularity that so aided my writing a year ago. Additionally, there are more distractions this time around. I am living with and around my closest friends, and there is always something (else) to do.

I’m hoping (foolishly!) that motivation will suddenly strike. The problem is that I’m just tired. I’m working around 32 hours each week, and I haven’t yet had a “day off” that I didn’t spend moving furniture. Maybe once the novelty of living here without school wears off, and I take a short break, I’ll be able to force myself into getting some work done, adopt some pattern. Because there is no other way to get this thing written than to simply write it. Thinking about it doesn’t help. Anyone who has ever written knows that The Muse strikes during the process, not before, and that writing is tedious, demanding labor that requires a sort of blue-collar work ethic and seldom rewards.

It will be difficult. I’ve already done so much, and I feel so tired of the story sometimes, particularly when I think about how much there is left to do. It’s a good premise, and certain selections of the prose are stunning. But there are major problems with the plot and pacing that from time to time seem insurmountable.

Sometimes when I think about this thing I feel pretty ridiculous. A novel? Who the fuck am I kidding?