Last week a new story popped into my head. In fact it was a character. Then another character. Then a plot. And well, I spent a good part of my weekend scribbling, longhand into my most recent notebook.
I’ll admit it was a weekend I was supposed to be doing something else (sorry bookclub!), but the words were flowing so I was anchored to the best kind of solitude I know… just me and the writing demon hanging out.
The curious thing was when I told a friend what I’d been doing they asked how many words I’d written. I estimated about 2,500. I also held up the wad of pages that represented all the words since about last Wednesday. It seemed thick. It seemed like more than I’d felt I’d filled.
But I wasn’t going to be obsessive and count the number of pages. No. I didn’t have to know the exact number. Yeah right. That lasted about an hour and then I had to get the notebook out and do the calculations!
I should point out that this isn’t even a project I’m likely to work on properly right now. It may well never get fully written, but definitely not until I’ve got first drafts of the novellas done. But I still had to know.
For the record… 5,300 is about right, which puts my weekend closer to 4,000. Sometimes I surprise myself.