(is that the first number I’ve used in the title of one of these posts without referring to it in letters?)
It’s done. It’s finally done. The Twelve Stories Of Christmas, a deceptively ambitious writing project in which I attempted to write one short story, of at least five thousand words, every day for the twelve days of Christmas from December 25th to January 5th, has been finished. Hoo-frakking-ray.
And I don’t want to sound like I dick here, and I am appreciative of any and all thankings that may occur in the comments of this post, but I kinda wanna forget about the whole traumatising experience and move on with my life! These things took eight or nine hours a day which, when you’re in the middle of giving up caffeine and are only awake for ten hours a day tops, quickly takes up all of your life with a thing that you know is of poor quality and you’re only doing because you’re a literary masochist and still have a burning sense of regret from failing NaNoWriMo. But whatever, it’s done.
But I am genuinely pleased with what I’ve done, especially with regards to how a narrative is constructed, maintained and concluded over the course of a text, which is something I’ve never really experienced before as a writer, only writing these endless blog posts and immensely long epic novels where an ending doesn’t really need to be factored into the equation for another hundred chapters or so. One day, probably over Easter or Summer, I’ll do a proper review of my work over this period – because doing a thing is worthless if you’re not going to review and improve upon it later – but for now, there’s the number of words I’ve written in these last twelve days, and here’s to the next week I can spend goofing off and playing Civ V.
Wait, uni starts next week.
And I’ve neglected an entire term’s worth of reading in favour of that dumb writing project.