I’m trying to finish the first draft of this book before the end of the year, so that I can let it all simmer beautifully in my head while I spend five days on the road to New Orleans. I’m not going to hate myself if I don’t finish it, but I would really prefer to love myself in a pure and proud way instead.
I’ve got about 120 pages left to write, though, in like, 23 days. Certainly not impossible. I know a lot about what happens in it, happens to her and the rest of them, but also there’s so much I still need to make up.
I went to yoga today and the focus was on creativity, determination, and abundance, and I was like: Hell yeah.
Alex and I made a pact to finish our books by the end of the year. Someone else told me their fiancee had the same goal. This is serious business. This is not a New Year’s Resolution, unless you’re counting backwards or something. This is like: Finish your fucking work already.