Once upon a time there was a writer who took part in a challenge to write a new short piece of prose every day for a month. It wasn’t the first time that they had done this – and it was unlikely to be the last.
There was always a point in the month when they wondered why they put themselves through this daily torture.
Things would start well enough with some quirky and fun ideas. Something a little melancholy, add a dash of reincarnation, some interesting visuals, a sweeping romance and the writer was off and running.
They were proud of their snappy titles and interesting new characters. Even the stories that were deliberately short still packed a punch because when every word counts you use them wisely.
The writer would spend time researching and planning, determined to submit only the very best. The sound of the clicking and clacking of laptop keys was music to the writers’ ears.
This was what it was all about. This was proper writing. Bring it on!
Though as the month wore on, the writer wore out. Not all at once but a bit at a time. There were days when life got in the way and other days when the writer went looking for distractions. Sometimes there was less researching and more staring out of the window; not a bad thing if it leads to inspiration of course.
A few times the writer would hit the submit button and sigh, indicating happiness at squeaking it in before the deadline or embarrassment at the piece of work they had achieved that day.
The snappy titles would sometimes be more generic and rushed, the characters would refuse to take shape and the writer would start to think that the finishing line was unreachable.
It’s called a second wind. The writer knew from past experience that it would come and yet it was always a surprise. A very welcome surprise. Suddenly there was less than a week to go! Where had the time gone?
Looking back over some of the prose submitted, the writer had to admit that most of it wasn’t as bad as feared. Most of it. Some of it would never be seen or read again and quite rightly so but there were others that showed promise. A character here and there, a setting, a story… with a little work they just might…
But for now, it was time for the writer to finish up and finish strong. All the highs and lows that they had gone through were just part of the challenge – it wasn’t just about writing; it was about proving something to yourself. The writer had written a new piece of prose every day; sometimes bad, sometimes good and sometimes downright ugly but nevertheless… every single day.
The writer knew that, as much as they would collapse in a heap once over the finishing line, they would also then pick themselves up and do it all again next time.
And they would live happily ever after.
The end (for now).