Here's what I did:
I wrote a book. Another book. Sort of.
I wrote 80,792 words (I'm counting "The End") on a novel that has had two false starts and, ahem, some history (see my previous blog post).
I had promised myself (and you, my faithful blog readers) I would write the rough draft (a.k.a. CrapDraft) in 14 days. It did, in fact, take me 18 days.
I did not do the whole "write ten minutes while you're waiting for the teakettle to boil" business. If I didn't have a decent block of time to write in (at least 2 hours) I didn't start. I didn't wake up early (well, once I did and decided that was for the birds). I didn't stay up late.
I did growl, snarl and hold up my hand to ward off the various members of my family. "You get nothing from me until September 21," I repeated time and time again.
I did attend my high school reunion and drink heavily. I am worried about the 7K I wrote while still hungover and riding in the passenger seat on I-64.
Not too worried, however--I refuse to worry until September 28th at the earliest. October, after all, will be for editing--or, in my case, rewriting the entire thing, including doing copious back research to see if half of the crazy stuff I put in this draft is even feasible.
This is what I've learned about myself in the process of crapdrafting: I write bigger. My characters get gored by boars and caught in Borneo mudslides. They kick each other in the guts and pull each other out of whirlpools in hurricanes. They swing from the chandeliers while engaged in other, well, activities. Sooner or later, I know, I'll have to calm them down.
But not before next week. This week I will simply strut around, struttingly.
I would edit that sentence--and decimate my em-dash population--if it were next week. But it ain't, is it?