NYE hath come and gone, and the sensation of deep ponderance has stuck with me so far.
I got in the habit of thinking philosophically on NYE back in HS, drinking a lot and staying up far, far too late. SciFi's yearly TZ marathon is usually my best friend during this sort of thing, and in a way that happened again last night: PBS ran their American Masters about Rod Serling again.
I just can't get over that guy. Shameless actor, powerful writer, and he seems completely unashamed of anything he ever produced. If I could do that, I'd probably have my novel by now.
Oh, it'd suck. It's a first novel; first novels suck by definition. But there's really no comparison between someone not being able to read your novel at all and someone reading it and throwing it directly into the trash, where they think it belongs -- with the latter, there is a surge! They read the whole thing! Wow! With the former, there is a vague sensation, a lack of existence.
Somehow, I can't help but be filled with elation at the very notion of having a thick, 300-page manuscript in my hands, something I made all by myself, something I spewed forth from my very own mind. I can't imagine what could possibly wipe the smile from my face short of a bear trap closing suddenly on my leg.
On that note, I want to state unequivocally that I want this thing done by the end of the year. No question. No possibility of failure. How can this fail? Even if I only write 200 words a day I can swing that.
I can do better. On a good day, I can produce 1000 decent words, maybe 1500. Pushing a little harder, and with the right coffee, I can crank another 500 on top of that, words that aren't sterling but get from page to page amicably enough. Even if I sat down and pounded the best 500 words I could a day, it would still only take about a 3rd of the year.
There is no reason, save unexcusable sloth or my head falling off, that I should not be able to complete my first novel.
