50,003

* Today: 4,971
Total: 50,003
Done. Finally.

- You rock. Feel good?

*Relief and some happiness... and yet more expectation to make it better than what it is.

- Of course. That's what national novel editing month is for. Meanwhile, enjoy the satisfaction. YOU WROTE A BOOK IN A MONTH.

The first thing I did, when I checked my wordcount and saw that I'd finally reached that magic number. When I did the math and realized I was over the top. That first moment, I took a deep breath and thought, finally.

This whole month I've been participating in NaNoWriMo, National Novel Writing Month. And that shit wasn't easy, at all, so much so that the next few blogs will, most likely, feature the lessons I learned over the past twenty-seven days. (Yes, I ended early, but for a pressing reason, namely this blog.)

Over the past month, I put a lot of pressure on myself to somehow be better. Better than I would expect anyone else to be. I was talking about this with Doc earlier today, and he wanted to understand what I meant when I said I expected more of myself than I do of others.

I must be stronger. Tougher. Work harder. Hold it together. Do more. Be better. Be more.

And then Doc pointed out the obvious: I was not being kind to myself with this mentality.

I've pushed myself in this past month towards an arbitrary goal, while still holding myself to another arbitrary goal I set at the beginning of the year. Not only did I expect, no demand of myself, to write fifty thousand words in thirty days, I still needed to write thirty blogs. And hey, I even threw in a trip to San Francisco and lots of work to pay for it on top of that.

I gave myself all these goals, all this expectation, but now I'm not sure if what I accomplished is much to show for it. There wasn't going to be any ticker tape parade, no medal, no great accolades, but just more work. Work.

So, right now, sitting in my bed jotting down words for one of twelve more blogs I need to pump out before the end of the month, I feel a little less stress, and a bit sad because, in my mind, I could've done more, wrote more, made it better. My 50,003 words need a lot of work.

Also, and this is going to be me sounding conceited and I fully cop to that, I could've easily written 75,000 words this month. But I went to California. And I skipped a few days. I didn't live up to the exorbitant standard I set for myself.

Instead, I was human. Instead, I made one of my deadlines and must now rush to meet the other, much like most people at their jobs. (Oh, that is one lesson I will preview for you. Writing is a fucking job and anyone who says otherwise is full of shit. /rant)

In the end, I was just adequate when, for some reason, my mind thinks I should've been extraordinary. Then again, should isn't exactly my favorite word. 

I guess, in the end (yes, I'm being repetitive because I'm tired), it'll take a day or two to sink in.  Even though I can't feel it yet, even though I can't comprehend it yet, what I did was kind of awesome.

I wrote a novel in a month.

I wrote a novel in a month.

Shit, I wrote a novel in a month.