It's been two weeks since I launched myself into "being a writer."
This has included many hours of reading over most of the fiction I've written in the past thirteen years, trying to figure out a piece of software I downloaded five years ago and never quite got the hang of, scribblings on notepaper and a large whiteboard, a few pages printed out, a few segments lightly edited, two different outlines partly finished...
And very little new writing. Yet I feel I've made tremendous progress, and so that is just fine.
Because it feels different now; much more purposeful and much more possible. I can't say quite why that is, but I don't think it really matters. I wish I had more energy to apply to it; I'd work far more hours of the day if I could. For now, I'm doing all I can to get moving forward and keep going, and when I can do even more, I will. I don't want to burn out, of course, but that's not too likely.
Today I'm ready to tackle the first of three segments of writing that will make the story I'm working on feel like a real book. There's an online forum to revisit in which one character is secretly wooing another with haiku, a rehearsal of a children's Thanksgiving pageant, and probably something to do with the dog Chucho, because he'll want his say in things.
Then I will refresh my outline and prepare for fill-in segment two. I've got this.
Right? And so.