This November, I’m attempting to write a minimum of 200 words per day. I stole this idea from Carly Racklin and have been tweeting relentlessly about it under the patently-made-up #IShoWriMoMo hashtag.

200 words doesn’t sound like very much, does it? That was the point, really. To me, the big hump to get over isn’t the actual words, but finding the time in the day to sit down and begin the writing. Once I’ve actually started, words do tend to come out - not necessarily good words, but words-comma-existent. My theory has always been that once a thing exists, it can be improved. If there are words, they can be edited and/or threatened until they turn into something decent.

One evening this week - arriving back home at around half-past eleven at night - I was tempted to skip a day. After all, this is a challenge I have set myself. Missing sleep for an arbitrary set of rules is silly; I can give myself permission to go to bed instead. Right?

I didn’t.

Partly, this is because I am the sort of person who invents silly sets of arbitrary rules and sticks to them. Ask me about January 2018, when each day I had to try a new drink, and (other than that) was only allowed to drink things from previous days. But mostly it was because I am hoping to use this month to blast through a first draft of my work-in-progress.

My WIP started as a short story, but is rapidly turning into a thing that I must reluctantly concede is a novel. I have previously lost impetus on long works, and I want to kick start myself into seeing it through to a conclusion. If I only add to it when I have the time, then that’s not a challenge. That’s just normal life.

The daily writing is providing results. My draft has grown considerably since November 1st, so I think the plan is working.

Which does, of course, raise a question: why am I writing this blog post instead of getting on with it?