I have the best of intentions when it comes to my writing goals. Not that they follow through all the time, but I do mean well. Each night before bed I picture what I will write the next day. And if, come morning, the scene is cloddish and stalls and then falls headfirst out a window (like today’s scene has just done, literally!), I can’t blame myself, can I? I am trying.
The freelance writing disappointments and exhausted efforts of late have given me a new drive. I’m writing my own stuff now; I’m not doing assignments anymore, even if someone asks. (Let’s see what I say when someone asks.) But, no, I mean it! I’ve found new motivation—I can’t pinpoint where it came from—but there’s something that’s getting me up earlier and earlier each morning to work before work. I have no deadlines. I have no one waiting to read this (save e). I have no reason to be working this hard, except that I want to because I don’t really want to be doing anything else. I hope this sticks. I’ll feel better about myself as a human being if it does.
It is my intent to finish the first draft of this story before I have to leave for work.
Will I do it?
I’d guess no.
(Not a half hour later: Huh. I guess maybe I did.)