I have completed my 100 words for 100 days summer ass-kicking project. Gosh, it was a much more arduous process than I expected. When I began, I figured it would be just like NaBloPoMo (crap, that’s soon, isn’t it?). I’d sit down at the same time every day, hack out something silly, and then reward myself with a glass of something.
Hubris. Of the most hubristic variety.
A glance at the blog will tell you that I gave up posting every day’s entry on the website every day. Over half of my sessions involved me curling up with a notebook I borrowed from my PH or crouching over my phone on the bus along the way home. And then there were the days I was camping or holidaying it up with friends. Somehow, I got in those 100 words before the clock struck twelve.
Though my official project is done, it may take another 100 days more for the bruises to heal. I hope it takes longer. In truth, I hope they never fade.
You see, I am kind of worried now that it’s over. Without the guilt invading my dreams, forcing me to get something, anything, down on paper before I am allowed to sleep, I am concerned I will slough it all off again.
Writing every day is tough, man. Really freaking Alberta-brutal. There were times I had to yank the words out of frozen fingers. Every rotation of the pen or push of a button on the keyboard caused me to wince. It was that painful. It was only my hatred of failure that kept me going, my knowledge that I would loathe myself even more if I didn’t haul myself to the end, filling out every numerical box on my project page.
It would be so easy to take a break right now. My lazy, unmotivated, miserable self taunts me with the notion. C’mon Kristine, relax. You’ve worked hard. You’ve earned it. Take the next night off, and then the next night, and then the next night…
That’s the thing, it is my unhappy self that keeps wanting to push me down. The side of me that is more comfortable doing nothing and feeling sorry about it. The Kristine who berates herself for not doing the laundry or waking up earlier. She likes me to keep feeling like crap. It keeps her alive.
Writing is hard. At times excruciatingly so.
Not writing is harder. Not writing stifles happy, confident Kristine, makes me forget she exists. I do believe she does. I just need to be brave enough and strong enough to battle the dragon keeping her in her tower.
This is why I signed up for a creative writing class. I don’t know if it’s going to end in anything helpful and have no expectations for myself other than to keep writing. Keep putting words down until maybe it isn’t as hard, and even if it’s always a struggle, keep doing it anyway. I know myself well enough to accept the fact I need external motivation. If I am going to continue, I can’t do it alone.