Stalwart 17

50118. Words, that is.

I have crossed the finish line, although I’ve been limping for about a week. I’d wager the last 10K words I’ve written will never see print, casualties or sacrifices given to the altar of constructive criticism and the editor’s practiced eye.

I’d hoped, yet again, to write much more today. Accustomed to easy-flowing words and scenes, I’ve come to the hard part of writing. What was once effortless is now a hard, grinding endurance trial. What was fun is now work, and not the kind of labor for which I receive ready compensation.

But looking back over the last two weeks, I got paid in advance. I was, and am, a writer again. I am creating, weaving life into intangible concepts, putting words and dialog and emotions into people who exist only in my mind.

They live inside 50118 words, backed up across several platforms of plastic, wires, and uncaring electrons. Behind a technological barrier they live and thrive, waiting for me to visit them again and tell them what to do.

Tomorrow, we will meet, exchange pleasantries and go to work. They will ask me how their days were, and I will tell them stories of memories they’ve yet to remember.

I am a writer. It’s what I do.

so really, 50118 and counting.