This long summer day trails out of sight in a wash of persimmon with a wink of yellow flame, and now the milky pale aqua sky dulls. A chill sends me inside to the Arctic white of my computer screen, a harsh reminder that my 250 words for today are not yet written (unless I count the 62 I have just put down). Goals. A word full of promise and enthusiasm when uttered, untested - a word ponderous, demanding acknowledgment and attention if I dare fold my screen downwards. My goals seem always to be attached to numbers - 20 lbs by such and such... in 30 days...by Mar 15...250 words a day...
Sixteen months ago (is that a goal in reverse?) I began writing a novel. I set a goal. The first draft would be complete by July 1, 2013 in time for the Iowa Summer Writing Festival in Iowa City. The first day I pounded out 15 pages. And, amazingly, I kept at it. Some days I didn't write at all. Others dragged through quicksand. Some fairly flew off the page into some adjacent unseen universe. I finished the draft with 2 weeks to spare, though, of course I knew too well that there was much left unwritten (or merely running loose, amok in that aforementioned universe), characters keeping me awake at night, turing me into a rudely distracted friend and mate who seemed (and was) less than interested in whatever conversation I was expected to take part in. But, the goal had been reached.
The euphoria lasted for about a week. No problem. The workshop created its own exhilaration and that lived on for a good 10 days after I left Iowa. Then the nagging rose up in my head. So, I thought, not too bad. I'll just cruise for a bit and then I'll get right down to work again - get that pesky rewrite done in short order. I set a goal. January 1, 2014. Better get on with that 250 words. And that's not including this post.
