Like Thoreau.

So, I spent a weekend alone at my family cabin. And I did more reading and writing there in one weekend than I have ever done in one sitting. EVER.

The only other soul I saw was a random giant dog that scared me as I took a coffee break by the river.


Here are the details:

Rough draft of my thesis is due in exactly one month.

For the first time this weekend, I put all of my stories together to see how much writing I have done. I have about 180 pages. ONE HUNDRED AND EIGHTY PAGES, YO. Who knew? That's about seven stories, and about 5-7 more short things that are maybe short-shorts or maybe unfinished things or maybe who-knows-whats as of yet. But this weekend was a weekend of assessment, and I feel good about what I have.

I also finished a story, wrote two flash fiction pieces, finished reading three books (hello!), and wrote one review.

I took a few small breaks to visit the river, but mostly I was working away in the big, big quiet.

My game. I was on it.

And you know me, I can't do anything without a plan. So about 4 hours of Saturday was spent working on a giant chart, breaking the next month down into manageable chunks of revision.

I feel like I can do this. It's not like I have a choice, anyway.

Onward.