Over the weekend I worked out a schedule for the rest of my book. I broke it all down to specific tasks and parts of work: the rough draft, due from me to myself by the first of the year; the revisions parsed into sections, to be complete by April 1; any remaining issues to be dealt with over the rest of the month of April, with a complete manuscript to be ready for my editor on May 1, 2013. It took me a while to work this out. I wanted a schedule that would push me through each small step with just enough time to reasonably finish, but not so much elbow room that I will waste a month polishing my toenails instead of getting to the business at hand.
The schedule represents a final desperate attempt to get around what the writing books call my ‘internal editor’, who sees what I’ve written and immediately itches to scratch it all out. My pages look like a toddler got hold of them and tried to draw me a picture. I have started and restarted over and over, trying to figure out this story and write it the fuck down. I have snarled and cursed and paced around the living room, leaving tracks in the carpet and flecks of spittle on my keyboard. Little Izzy is starting to realize her new owner is a raving lunatic. You should see her worried eyes.
This is it. If I can’t get a draft down by the end of the year, I will shoot this fucker in the head and start something new.
You heard it here first.
Let’s have it, yo. What are your intentions? I want dates, word counts, commitments.