Okay, so I wrote a novel type thing back in November. Awesome, right? After not writing any kind of fiction for more than half a decade, I bite the bullet and go all out.
And then it sits. And sits. Nothing gets done to this novel. It sits in Google Docs, with, untampered with. I had novel guilt -- the guilt that goes with an un-rewritten novel that is mediocre.
Until yesterday. Yesterday I opened a new Google Doc. Began typing. A new beginning to a story that already has two beginnings. Clearly not what I was supposed to do, but the main characters were intact, at a party with loud music. There were no parties in the original novel. There are no cupcakes in this new beginning (or any other beginning).
I don't know how to feel about this. I am still not looking at the massive text I wrote in November, yet this feels like progress. Maybe there will be more progress.
In other news, quitting the apartment building job has been great. Last night I went to sleep at 9:30 and woke up feeling well rested.
And tomorrow is my birthday! Excellent for me.