One week in, it seems as though things are progressing exactly as I expected.
I made a spread sheet for my word count, with columns for daily, weekly, and monthly contribution. It hasn’t been closed once since I began on the 27th, and clearly shows that I’ve met my daily quota (285 words) only two days out of the past seven, including today. Three days show no productivity at all.
And yet I somehow managed to do more than half my weekly quota (1k) just half an hour ago. The best part? I still have two hours before the day is over, leaving me plenty of time to get a head start on Week 2. Granted, my rules say that anything I write before midnight will not count for tomorrow, but at least I can add to my total.
Yes, I think I’ll continue writing by the week. 🙂
Excerpt of the day:
She didn’t see the man until they were about to walk into each other. In fact, if he hadn’t stepped onto the grass at the last instant, they would have. Bridget had just enough time to realize this, gasp in awareness, and turn her head to apologize before he reached out and shoved her off the wall.
There was nothing she could do to stop it. Her board was in her left hand, her right hand was already groping for some form of safety that wasn’t there. In half a second it would be breaking against concrete. She saw the man’s grin slip away to be replaced with green leaves and bright light. Then she realized that she’d been staring upward for quite a few moments and for having fallen almost four feet, she was in surprisingly little pain.
“Are you alright, I said!”
Bridget started breathing again. A familiar guy in a “CIA” cap was clutching her upper body. Her feet were tensed against the side of the wall. Before she could answer, the well-dressed man above them drew a long knife from the back of his belt, causing her to yelp in warning. That was all it took for her would-be hero to drop her on the ground. “Siph!” he shouted. “Get her to headquarters!”
Though there was no reply, someone else leapt into the edge of Bridget’s vision and yanked her back to her feet. It might have been the case that the hand clutching her arm was unusually hot. But most of her attention just then was on memorizing the features of the man with the knife, and to the girl’s uninitiated mind even that brought a shock. His age was strange enough, because a man who seemed to be at least in his sixties shouldn’t have had the strength he did; but more confusing was his gauntness, his brown skin mottled with beige, and the sharp points of his teeth as he grinned, not at her anymore, but at the person digging his nails into her arm.
Then the guy in the hat jumped onto the wall, stealing the attacker’s attention, and the person next to her whispered “Hurry!” before pulling her down the sidewalk at a run.