I am a failure at organizing my life, and thus my mother has taken it upon herself to remove this burden from upon me. She has forbidden me from writing my novel until the end of the school year. It is a perfectly reasonable decision: I have other responsibilities, namely staying at the top of the school, making full use of the painfully expensive college prep thing she's signed me into, and doing well in the upcoming AP's. And besides, being the untalented, immature, and overall far too naive creature that I am, the novel is bound to suck ass anyways.
Well screw that.
You see, I knew from Report 1 (With the Dedication of a Barnacle) that Sun Road would probably never be accepted by a publishing company; and that, even if it were, it would be painful to see that unprofessional block of ink on paper bashfully occupying two inches on the shelves of a bookstore, doomed to gather dust and then be shipped off to some unfortunate library packed with the souls that never sold. I am not a genius, I'm only smart enough to know that Sun Road is not particularly interesting, or beautiful. I've had my doubts of whether this was all worth my time.
But if I don't finish it now, I never will. And I have decided that that reality would hurt more than losing two hours of sleep every night fumbling with crappy ideas and loosely strung words.
It's probably stupid. I do a lot of stupid things, after all. Most of my problems I've invented myself. But besides untalented, immature, and naive, I am also sappy and romantic and very slightly clinically depressed on occasion.
The last thing I need is to break my own promise to myself after over a month of going strong.
I'm going to do this.
(...but I'm revising the plot to be simpler and shorter. Doesn't hurt to be realistic, after all.)
Words written in the past five days: 0. Total words: 14,087. Words left: 35,913. Days left: 20.
Words per day to finish on time: 1,796.
((read Sun Road here))
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