Yesterday I spent over ten hours writing. Wonderful!
I finished the current twittertale, wrote one-third of the next one (which is currently called “When Good Libraries Go Bad”), and wrote an entire story for that kitten/pegasus/unicorn/Wil Wheaton/John Scalzi/clown sweater painting – oh, you want to see it again? Okay.
A writing binge is a lot easier for single people to do, since it’s tempting to talk to one’s spouse or kids if they exist. Resist the urge to join humanity! Don’t speak more than a grunt in response to any outside stimulus.
The best part about writing ten hours (other than hopefully getting some writing jobs done and/or dusted) is the feeling at the end of the day.
I once (if I remember correctly) wrote 20,000 words in one day. It was the first day of the three-day novel contest, and I reached my aim of 50,000 words altogether. Bizarrely, the book actually worked (it’s my realist novel), too.
Every phase of life has its advantages. This one goes firmly in the “being single” category, along with freedom to travel and to spend all your money on pay day (even if that may mean no food for thirteen days).
To do a fabulous binge, you need to begin over breakfast, cancel all but one thing in your day (one thing keeps the pressure on before you do it, and refreshes you when you do it, even if it’s vacuuming), and have food and snacks on hand (and throw all non-writing self-control out the window to write at any cost). Anything you have to do – clean your teeth or brush your hair – is a reward for an hour’s work.
Play along at home: What phase of life are you in – kid, teenager, independent and single, married no kids, married with kids, empty nest parent, or retired? What can you do now that you couldn’t before, and won’t be able to do again?
Tomorrow: “Felon’s Five Thousand” party, including yum cha. (The five thousand refers to my estimate of how many hours I’ve spent writing. It adds up to five hundred writing binges, if that was how I always wrote.)