I just spent the last, oh, 10 minutes or so writing in this little red Moleskine journal. It has been in the front pocket of my bag for at least a month now, and I swear, when I opened it, I could hear the spine crack.
I haven't written anything of quality in so long that it was seriously weighing me down. It still is, actually, since my 10 minutes with Little Red didn't really result in anything groundbreaking or formative. Still, though, let's focus for starters on small goals—like writing for 10 minutes, and not about work (kudos to me, by the fucking way, for ignoring the "Competitors Partnering for Innovation in Automotive: The Global Hybrid Cooperation" article that's waiting patiently for me, lighting up my screen—deadline awaits!—and writing anyway).
Seeing how I blew my "published by 30" goal, set way back when I was 19 or so, when I thought I'd be dead before 30 anyway, doomed tragically to the life of a poor, struggling writer, with addictions of all sorts and a list of ne'erdowell lovers rolling right past you out the fucking door and down the stairs—19 year old me: you had good plans...you did!—I've now decided to extend my own deadline. I will now be published before I turn 40. "Published" includes by my own hand, out of my own pocket, and read only by my small group of friends and family.
I have this 80,000+ word manuscript that's giving me an ulcer, but I'm letting it win by allowing it to sit in its nasty state of medicore-ness, its nasty state of inconsistency and fuck-off moments.
I have a little over five years to nail this goal. I'm hoping I'll only have to use two of them.