I am so very very very far behind. Well, maybe just very very. At any rate, I'm behind and running out of juice. I must now write 2664 words a day to make the deadline. That would be 1000 more than the usual number.
And why does this matter to me so very much? Part of it is my thought of myself as a writer. Although I sincerely doubt that I will ever be a writer (I'm giving up so many of my delusions as I age), I still like thinking that there could be a chance. Plus I generally enjoy writing. But this story has just turned into something very difficult to write.
I also like to think that my stories are interesting. That supposition was recently put to the test when a man at our congregation asked me if he could read what I wrote last year (we've shared all sorts of reading adventures, especially regarding the Spanish Flu epidemic in 1917-1918). He told me yesterday that he had read it. And not much else. So I guess I'm supposing that it was not "all that". Sigh. What can I say to that? Nothing, especially if I lack the guts to ask him what he thought.
And I should be expending all this verbiage in my novel, so at least I don't feel like a serious loser if I don't get 50K words by midnight on the 30th.