When I was an undergrad, and most of the way through grad school, I didn't have a sustainable daily writing discipline. Instead, I had just enough masochism to procrastinate until it was necessary to bang out, say, three twenty-page papers in three days. It was a ridiculous way to go about things. Now I have to decide if I really want to subject myself to the equivalent of that ordeal over the next three days, when I've been plugging away faithfully all month at a rate of productivity that is, by anyone's standard, pretty respectable.
Any minute now, twoeleven will come by to remind me that I don't need this arbitrary deadline, that I write just fine without it. Yeah, I know. But I have too much sense for climbing Everest or bungee jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge. I have this unspent quota of recklessness, and apparently I have to use it on something.
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