I have reached 25000 words. Half of my goal for December. It is the evening of the 28th, and I am only halfway to where I want to be. How did this happen? How can I call myself a writer? How do I live with myself, knowing all this time was wasted, wasted, wasted?
I have many reasons.
First, I wrote my final essay for the semester and took my finals on the 6th of December. I had to study, had to write, could not work on my WriMo project. Subsequently, I received straight A’s this semester and I’m elated. Those grades were needed. They’re a small success story, and my wounded psyche eats it up. Success. A word I’ve used seldom for the past few years.
On the 8th of December, I got a sinus infection that resulted in a doctors appointment, ZPak (I know. I’m contributing to the super-bug), and rest. I wrote some, but not enough.
On the 10th of December, I ate Burger King. Normally this isn’t worth noting because fast food is stupid and nobody cares. But this evening was different: I pulled into a deserted, unlit parking lot surrounding a Burger King with tinted windows and a resulting dim lights inside, pulled into the drive-through, and surprisingly they were open. I ordered, bit in, and the rest, they say is history. Skeevy place.
On the 11th of December, I flew out to Florida with my family, sick with food poisoning on the plane, and we spent a full week on Captiva Island with private access to the beach, 80 degree weather, and beautiful, soft wind off the Gulf coast. I was sick for two days there, recovered enough on Tuesday to go walking about, and lost myself to the enjoyment of perfect paradise.
On the 18th of December I returned home to 5 degree weather, face breaking out in hives from the cold wind at the airport, and spent a day with the family at their place before returning to my apartment.
I then had four days to write. And I wrote. 2k the first day, 8k the second. I made great strides forward. Then I watched some tv, cleaned the apartment, wrapped presents, hung out with friends, and prepared to drive to the family’s place again for Christmas.
I had a cold again, driving down. Sniffles, head stuffy. Nothing crazy. I woke up the next day with a 102.7 temp. Not nauseated. Not leaky fauceted nose. Just a huge temp, crazy chills, and a need to get warm. I was sick, again, for three days. THREE DAYS. But the fever broke and now all I have is a rabid cough from deep within my chest. Fingers crossed it isn’t pneumonia.
Christmas was great, overall (even though I stayed away from everyone and sat old-man style on a chair with a blanket over my legs and feet), and I felt the love. My mother made me a sandwich and for some reason that was the most important part of the whole shindig. She hasn’t made me a sandwich in years.
Drove back yesterday to my apartment, felt miserable with the chest cough and exhaustion, and have recovered more yesterday and today. I only just. Now. Got to sit down and write again, and found my book breathtaking to me. This isn’t some plug for it, or some cocky statement, but when a person loves his writing when he re-reads it, he’s doing it right.
I’ve also found a title for it: Corpus Paradiso. The word Corpus invokes a feeling of death, like the combination of the words Corpse and Pus, even though it only means Body in Latin. The word Paradiso, in turn, seems paradoxical to be beside Corpus, given the grossly guttural nature of the former to the latter. What does this mean? I took it from Joyce. I find it quite fitting.
So here I am, the night of the 28th, at a little over 25k. Today I added 2k words, which is not even close to what I need to meet my goal for December. The good news? I’ve lived December to its fullest. Kicking and screaming, at times, but I did. Haha
I hope everyone is enjoying their holidays, and I have more to look forward to, as my family is hosting a party for New Years on Saturday. More time not spent writing! (Yet experiences far improve our writing when used correctly).